


welcome home

by raisuki (inthegripofahurricane)



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Assassin!Light, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Disassociation, Gen, I mean obviously its an assassin au, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Lots of L moping, M/M, Murder, Mutual Pining, Other, Past Drug Addiction, Unhealthy Relationships, some power dynamic related consent issues, some pretty graphic violence, this fanfic is just me trying to rewrite the second season of killing eve tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 62,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23056471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthegripofahurricane/pseuds/raisuki
Summary: In a cemetery in a sleepy English town, L Lawliet watches the burial of his sole guardian and swears his revenge.His quest for retribution will lead him down a convoluted path, and into the life of a psychopathic assassin, pulled into a conspiracy running deeper than L could ever imagine.
Relationships: L/Yagami Light, Past Beyond Birthday/L
Comments: 60
Kudos: 95





	1. they got wammy

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Nobody! Who are you?  
> Are you - Nobody - too?  
> Then there's a pair of us!  
> Don't tell! they'd advertise - you know!
> 
> How dreary - to be - Somebody!  
> How public - like a Frog -  
> To tell one's name - the livelong June -  
> To an admiring Bog!
> 
> (From Poem 260 by Emily Dickinson)

British weather really was as bad as everybody said it was.

It had started pissing it down when Light arrived, and hadn’t ceased since; it was the sort of rain that never relented, the sort of rain that pummelled and flew into your face, the kind of rain that soaked through the skin and right down to the bone.

Light dug his hands further into his pockets, although it made little difference. He should have packed a fucking umbrella. Who came to England without an umbrella?

The rain had even soaked through his wig and then through the wig cap—he hoped it wouldn’t jeopardize his disguise. He’d done too much planning for it all to be ruined by bad luck.

He was in the suburbs of London, where houses were all squashed together, as if even the architecture wanted to make itself look as small as possible. Red and white light bounced off the roads, streaking the darkened street with colour. The area wasn’t very pretty, and it wasn’t wealthy, either; high-rises towered on either side of Light’s vision, and most shops of the street were boarded up—the recession hadn’t treated Britain well. 

A group of boys hovered on one corner, hoods pulled low over their faces. They nodded at Light slyly, pushing themselves gently from the wall. Light didn’t like the way they leered at him.

“Oi, you like pills?”

Light shook his head, trying to radiate disinterest, which he normally did with ease. The boy who’d approached him kissed his teeth, giving Light a derisive once over. “You not speak English or something?”  
Light gave him a long, silent look. He did, of course, but he’d rather not engage. Of course he wasn’t scared, he traced the cool, smooth surface of the knife in his pocket. It was carbon steel, fashioned especially for him. If the rain rusted it he’d be fuming.

“Whatever.” The boy said, clearly beginning to lose interest. Light saw a glimpse of his face from beneath his hood—he looked young, younger than Light, and resembled the usual inbred Brit. 

This place was nowhere. It was pathetic, really. That such a revered person as Wammy had come to die here, was shocking—in a nondescript corner of impoverished London—when he’d once been revered as the world’s greatest inventor-come-philanthropist. Apparently when cats were sick they crawled into a secluded, dark crevice while they waited to die. Maybe Wammy was doing something similar, although Light had imagined him in one of those places that looked like castles, where old money came to burn through the remainder of their cash, all while their offspring waited impatiently for their share of the inheritance. But this? This was a shithole.

The building looked more like an office block than a hospice—Light had to double check the slip of paper in his pocket. The redbricks were dirty, coated with a film of grime, a few sliding out of place. Light rang the bell and waited, wrapping his arms around his chest. It only took a few seconds before a small, round woman opened the door, bobbing her head at him.

“Family?” She asked, with a thick accent Light couldn’t place. He nodded. “Who are you visiting?”

“Wilhem James.” That was the alias Wammy had chosen, for better or worse. He’d hidden himself away in a place nobody could find him—where nobody would look to even look for him. Away from the children he’d raised as his own. 

Light didn’t know a lot about Wammy—he didn’t tend to ask questions—but he’d heard of him. Everybody had heard of Wammy, at least in his line of work; him and his rag-tag band of orphans were a perpetual threat to everybody in the industry. They had put more people Light knew away forever than he could count. Light stepped inside, glad to be inside.

“ID?” The woman asked. Her dark eyes flitted upwards at him, and although Light wasn’t sure, he thought he saw a trace of suspicion. She was tiny and fat, with dark, wrinkled skin and lips that had shrivelled into an ugly gash across her lower face. Light smiled, digging into his pocket and withdrawing his fake ID, fashioned to perfection by Mikami. Mikami never fucked up that kind of thing. He took a strange sort of pride in it. 

“I’m his grandson.” Light said smoothly. The woman raised an eyebrow. “Through adoption, that is.” He added, with a laugh. The perfect finishing touch, if he did say so himself.

She nodded, giving his ID another quick one over. Her eyes hovered just a second too long, and for a moment, Light was worried, but before he had time to come up with another excuse, she had given it back to him. “This way.” She said, turning around.

The hospice was just as nasty on the inside. The walls, once white, had faded to a dun, and were decorated with various photos of staff posing stiffly with residents. What a miserable place to spend your last few years, Light thought. 

The building was narrow and tall, with seemingly endless flights of stairs. As they walked up, Light caught his reflection in the width of a mirror. His wig, fortunately, still looked convincing; it was darker and shorter than his real hair—Kiyomi had given him a hideous, cheap tracksuit to wear—something he’d absolutely never wear if he had the choice. He’d protested at the time, but Kiyomi had just rolled her eyes and told him his snobbery would cost his life one day. Or even worse, his freedom.

Of course, anybody who knew him wouldn’t be fooled by the get-up, but it would be enough to throw off any CCTV that might be lurking in a mouldy corner. 

They ascended a further three sets of stairs, then the woman lead him down a hall, then another. Light hated the smell of these places. It was that horrible, clinical smell that clung to absolutely everything, much like the stench of a dead body.

“He’s through here.” The nurse said, her hand on the doorknob. She looked up at him cautiously. “When did you last come to see him? I haven’t seen you before.”

“It’s been a while.”

“How long’s a while?”

“Two years, give or take.”

“Well,” the woman said. “He hasn’t spoken for the past few months. I’m afraid he suffered another stroke a few months back—I assume you heard.”

“Of course.”

She opened the door, and there Light got his first proper look at Wammy. He was bedridden, but his steely eyes were open, and focusing on Light. Quite frankly, he looked creepy.

“Mr. Wammy,” The woman said gently, “your grandson is here.” Wammy’s eyes still fixed on Light. The nurse sighed. “I suppose I’ll leave you both alone… Is there anything I’m forgetting?”

Light said nothing. Wammy, unsurprisingly, also said nothing.

“I don’t think so.” She finished. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

Half an hour? That was plenty of time.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Light finally felt like he could relax. He nodded at Wammy, sitting down in the chair by the bed, crossing his legs and leaning back.

“Sorry about that.” He said, unzipping his jacket. “Bet I gave you a shock. To be honest, I didn’t expect to find you somewhere like this—I thought they’d give me a dirty look for how I’m dressed. But no, I fit right in.”

Wammy continued to stare at him. His eyes were wide, or as wide as they could go in his current state. Light wondered if he knew who he was—or at least what Light was here to do. Probably. Wammy might be senile, but he certainly wasn’t naïve. Even now, trapped in the shell that once been a body.

“I feel pretty shitty doing this, you know.” Light continued. “I’m used to dealing with people who put up a fight… but this? This just feels too easy…”

He got to his feet, glancing over the photos dotted around the shelves. There were lots of group photos featuring lines of smiling children. Light picked one up—it showed Wammy surrounded by smiling children, stretched out on a lawn on a day of rare English sun. They looked like an off-brand production of Oliver Twist. 

“I suppose these are your protégés. Very sweet.” He put the photograph down. “You would have thought they’d put you somewhere better than this. Seriously, the security here is terrible. Although I suppose they’d have no reason to suspect anybody nefarious would be after you.” He turned back to look at Wammy. Wammy’s were eyes following him as he moved, like a painting. Light crossed his arms and tilted his head back, taking a moment to stare at the plastered, grimy ceiling.

“To be honest, I could probably kill you without anybody suspecting you were even murdered. But I’ve received instructions otherwise, and I generally like to stick to instructions.”

He pulled the knife out of his pockets, tapping his nails against the silver surface. He caught a glimpse of his reflection, grinned, then placed it on his lap.

“I don’t like doing this.” Light said, “not to somebody like you, really. I know you probably don’t believe me, but it’s true.”

Again, Wammy said nothing.

\----

In one continuous motion, L rolled out of bed and collapsed onto sofa, all while rolling himself a cigarette. 

And Matt had the nerve to tell him he wasn’t athletic.

It was quarter to seven, and not for the first time, L couldn’t believe he was actually up at this time. What had the world come to? He’d assumed when he became the world’s greatest detective he’d be automatically above such things. Was this what the average person did all the time, every day, until they keeled over and died?

Beyond had once told him he’d never survive working a regular 9-5, but here L was. Proving him wrong, not for the first time. If he were still alive he’d die of shock.

He smoked in silence, padding to the kitchen, opening the freezer and turning on the kettle. He served himself four scoops of pistachio ice cream, coating it generously in chocolate sauce, all while pouring the boiling water on his instant coffee. He closed the freezer with his foot, stirring in six teaspoons of sugar, his cigarette dangling out his mouth. Ash fell into the ice cream, making him curse.

He looked briefly around the kitchen, at the utter havoc surrounding him. Dirty mugs lined the sink, cigarette butts glued to the dried coffee. As he went past he caught a whiff of ash-tray mixed with rotten milk and blanched; he’d have to get a cleaner in here at some point. Or maybe two. 

He took a moment to survey his appearance, shitty as it was. The bags under his eyes seemed to have gotten worse, his hair greasier. His boss had hinted he looked unprofessional on more than one occasion, at the very least, L had made the effort to dress a little smarter. His boss didn’t go on about it too much, fortunately, it was one of those millennial, modern tech start-ups that didn’t care too much about appearances, although L pushed the limits when it came to ‘business casual’. 

L stubbed out his cigarette in an empty mug, getting reluctantly to his feet while finishing off the remainder of his ice cream. He’d started taking daily showers, at the very least. Wasn’t that enough? What else could a man do? Would he have to start brushing his hair?

He’d probably have been fired by now if he weren’t so exceptional, and as arrogant as it sounded it was the truth. L could tell his boss was shocked and flattered that he was even working for them—somebody with L’s skills could easily get a job somewhere better, and somewhere better paid. He was happy for L just to be working for their company, and that meant that L got away with more than he ought to. Like being late nearly every day.

L preferred to walk to work, and although getting the bus or train would be quicker, he had a strong dislike of public transport. People on public transport would avoid sitting next to him, which hurt his feelings, although he’d never admit it. It wasn’t like he wanted anyone to sit next to him anyway.  
But walking allowed him to wake up a little, as well as survey his surroundings. Of course, there was much to see in Birmingham, but that was how he liked it. Birmingham was all high-rises, kebab shops and grey-faced residents. L had come here to sink into the background, to disappear into a crowd; that had been why he’d accepted such an unexciting job. He sometimes wondered how long this could continue for, and although he knew it wouldn’t be forever, it would certainly be for an extended period of time. 

His office blocks looked over a sludgy, brown-grey canal, lined mechanically with blocks of flats built in the 1960s. L punched a code into the door, sighed, put out his cigarette on the wall, then entered. 

“You’re late.” His boss observed, the moment L crossed her line of sight. She did so without looking up from her desk.

“Sorry.” 

“If you were sorry you’d make an effort to change.”

L shrugged. “The bus was late.”

“Right, whatever. Can you please try to be on time tomorrow?”

“You have my word.”

His boss snorted. “Your word means very little, if I’m being honest.” 

L slumped down at his desk, waiting for his dinosaur of his computer to stir. Outside was overcast and miserable—like the sky was itching for a storm. 

He couldn’t really complain—the work was easy. Really easy, if he were to be honest, and he was far, far overqualified. All he had to do was manage the technological aspects of the company, and that was just fine. It required minimal socialising and minimal teamwork—it allowed him to remain alone and undisturbed. 

“Landon!” One of his colleagues, called, a wide-grin spread over his face. Yes, Landon was the alias he’d chosen for this particular occasion. L couldn’t remember his approaching colleague’s name. Was it James? Jackson?

“Hello.” L returned flatly, silently pondering ways to get out of the conversation as quickly as possible. Two of the young women working for the company were at Jackson/James’ side, both of whose names also escaped him. He could tell they were reluctant. 

“We were just wondering,” James/Jackson said, hands dug deep in his pockets, “we’re having drinks for Christmas this weekend—the whole office will be there. We were wondering if you wanted to come.” He was lanky, and barely looked older than a teenager. He had a friendly face, however, albeit acne-covered.  
Why were they even approaching him? From what L had deduced about human interaction (which was very little) they were just being polite—that much was blatant. L’s eyes didn’t move. He wanted to be left alone. His social quota for the day had been met when he’d gone to buy a red-bull from the Sainsbury’s on the corner and the woman and come to him from behind the counter to press the ‘visibly over 25’ button (untrue and unfair, for the record) He didn’t need their stupid pity, because he was perfectly fucking fine, thank you very much. 

“I can’t.” He said shortly.

James/Jackson laughed nervously. “That was a very quick answer… we didn’t even give you any of the details.”

“I’m sorry,” L said. “But I don’t drink.” A worthy excuse.

The woman on James/Jackson’s left snorted. She was short and blonde, with red-rimmed, hipster-ish glasses that L took an immediate distaste to. He quickly decided she was his least favourite of the group. “What kind of guy in their thirties doesn’t drink?” She said with a laugh, her eyebrow quirked. A sort of challenge, under the guise of being playful. L refused to rise to the bait.

“I actually don’t drink,” he started, “because I was addicted to heroin. I don’t like going in those environments.” He sniffed. “And I’m twenty-six, actually.”

Silence, like a bomb had just exploded at their feet. L was pleased with himself. A lot had changed over the past few months, but L’s status as an unrepentant gadfly hadn’t. He could see the blonde going from pink to red, then to a deep beetroot, to his immense satisfaction.

“Oh,” she muttered. “Sorry.”

More silence. L used the opportunity to lean back and check his emails. 

“Not even a mocktail?” James/Jackson asked tentatively, although he didn’t sound convinced. Perhaps to break the tension. “It’s happy hour until ten.”

“No, sorry.”

“That’s… fair enough.”

“I’m sorry James.” L had taken a gamble with the name—one he hoped he would pull off to save himself further embarrassment. 

James/Jackson frowned. “My name’s Liam, actually.”

Shit. This was just getting more embarrassing by the moment. He’d been so sure his name begun with a J—was he thinking of somebody else? No, it was definitely J. Was this a test?

“Are you sure?” L asked.

“…Yes.”

“Oh, okay then. Well, sorry, Liam. I appreciate the gesture.”

“Any time.” Liam finished with a sigh, throwing a look at the other woman, who’d remained quiet this whole time. “I guess we’ll see you around.”

“I guess you will.”

They disappeared after that, all looking thoroughly embarrassed. L dreaded the next time they made eye-contact at the coffee machine. A part of L felt guilty for shooting down his colleagues’ attempts at friendliness—but really, it was better for him to keep a distance. He couldn’t get attached—the last time he’d gotten attached it had quite literally blown up in his face, leaving him with a broken heart and a crippling opiate addiction. 

Would Beyond laugh at him now? At how pathetic he’d become? He could picture his voice in his head, jeering and cruel. He was used to hearing it in the back of his head now, it was all heard in his dreams.  
The world’s greatest detective and you can’t even talk to you colleagues without embarrassing yourself.  
L briefly returned to his work, before realising how much he craved a cigarette. He left without asking (he couldn’t see his boss anywhere, so he assumed that meant he could take a break) and let himself out onto the fire escape. He stared at the grey, dull streets below, at the tiny people and their tiny houses. At the lives that kept being lived, at the world that kept turning. Everyone moved on without even trying. But L? L never changed. Change was the last thing he needed.

He’d just need to count down the hours until lunch break—and then he could take a quick visit to the patisserie across the street. It had Bakewell tarts and raspberry croissants, a lot like the one’s Wammy would order in for breakfast…

He was pulled out of his maladaptive fantasies by a buzzing in his pocket. He immediately reached for the phone he’d bought more recently, a battered blackberry, purchased but rarely used. His boss would occasionally call him on it, but other than that, it mostly remained dormant. Sometimes he’d get a call from a scammer promising to make him rich if he made a small investment in Somali gold, and those calls were just about the highlight of his week.

But he soon realised that wasn’t the phone that was ringing, it was the other, the one he kept in the back pocket of his jeans but had nearly forgotten about it. It was a grey-silver flip phone, the kind that cost less than ten pounds nowadays. He’d bought it a few years back as a work phone, not the work he was at right now, of course, but for real work. He picked it out of his pocket and held it at arm’s length. It kept ringing as L stared at it, disbelieving. Nobody had called him on it in over a year. 

And yet he still carried it around with him, waiting until someone did. That was what Beyond would have said, at least.

L took a shallow breath and picked up. 

“Hello?” He asked suspiciously. 

“L, it’s me.” The voice on the other end of the receiver said. The voice was unmistakable—slightly nasal, smooth, laced with faux-fratboy charm.

“Matt? What is it?”

“We’re here. Come to the lobby.”

“You’re here?” L asked disbelievingly, “when did you—“

“Just come down.” Matt cut in. “You’ll want to hear this.”

Matt and Mello looked incongruent to their background; Mihael was still sporting his ridiculous leather ensemble, and Matt still had those stupid goggles on, for no good reason. Suits walked past and gave them dirty looks, none of which either of them acknowledged. 

“What kind of place is this?” Mello asked, with an unimpressed stare. 

“I work here.”

“You work here?” Mello said, giving the lobby an apprehensive one-over. “Since when do you work?”

“Since now.”

“What else are you hiding? A wife, kids and a mortgage?”

“We should go back outside.” Matt grumbled. “I need a smoke.”

They stepped back out into the bitter English cold—the air hitting like a freezing, hard brick. Matt pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his front pocket and lit one, taking a long, decisive drag. He offered the packet to L.

“I just had one.” 

Matt shrugged. “If you’re sure.”

“I didn’t really believe them when they said we’d find you here.” Mihael said, leaning against the grimy wall of the building. “But here you are.”

“Here I am.”

“L, what the fuck are you even doing here?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

There was a moment of tense quiet. A motorcyclist sped past, his engine roaring. Somebody shouted a series of expletives at him—it was usual. Just the usual buzz and bustle of a big city. 

“I thought we should tell you this in person.” Mello said, his voice was so low that L could barely hear him amongst the ambient noise of the busy street. His blue eyes flickered for a moment, and he sighed. 

“They got Wammy.”

L’s breath hitched, and far away, perhaps down the street, he heard the unbearable screech of a small child crying, and it wouldn’t stop. That horrible, ear-piercing, incessant noise, blocking out L’s thoughts until he couldn’t even think.

“They… got Wammy? What does that even mean?”

The sun, which had briefly slipped out of its thick coat of clouds, had disappeared once again, taking with it all the brittle light and warmth it had brought with it. Far away, L could hear the noise of tyres screeching against wet tarmac.


	2. just passing by

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though bleak these woods, and damp the ground  
> With fallen leaves so thickly strown,  
> And cold the wind that wanders round  
> With wild and melancholy moan;
> 
> There IS a friendly roof, I know,  
> Might shield me from the wintry blast;  
> There is a fire, whose ruddy glow  
> Will cheer me for my wanderings past.
> 
> (From 'The Consolation' by Anne Bronte)

L had learned in his twenty-six years of existence that grief felt a lot like a hit. It pulled you hard and quick; within moments it could take your heart in your fist, drain your lungs of air and leave you dizzy. Much like a hit, it also had a tendency to poison the mind. 

The train from Birmingham to Winchester was long and quiet. Matt fiddled at his game while Mello flicked restlessly through a book, the three of them carefully avoiding eye-contact, avoiding talking, avoiding everything. The bruised sky of Birmingham morphed into a chilly but clear Winchester evening, where, to nobody’s surprise, nothing had changed since L had last been here. The spires of old buildings still pierced the sky, the residents were still mostly elderly, the atmosphere sleepy. At the very least it was beautiful, much more beautiful than Birmingham. 

Regardless of whatever might have changed, Winchester was still where L had grown up, and somewhere he hadn’t returned to for nearly five years. At the time L hadn’t seen it as necessary, he had much more important things to do than wander around the clusters of estate agents and churches in a sleepy English town, but now that mindset felt pretentious. Wammy had often told him to return to the orphanage at the very least, to see how much the current residents had grown  
.  
L had always made vague promises that he honestly did plan to see through, however, he never found the motivation to actually go. In all honesty, the place reminded him too much of Beyond. It was as if their shared childhood was buried in the fields under a tree. In the every church L could imagine Beyond at the altar, when he’d still been a believer, and then after A died, when his faith had dissolved, but he went just for comfort. L knew sooner or later he’d wander to Beyond’s grave and spend the day staring at it, visualising what it might have been like on the day he died. He’d visualise his corpse, hideous and deformed, buried under six feet of dirt. On the day he erupted into flames. And now, Winchester would remind him of Wammy’s death, too. 

Winchester was claustrophobic. The people came and went but the ghosts never left.  
He couldn’t even bear to stay there even one night. He’d already booked a hotel. 

\----

In a feat of mild irony, the funeral was the warmest it had been in weeks. The sky, which had been the colour of spoilt milk for a solid three weeks, dissolved into a bright blue—the sun shone in that way that made the light like summer, and the shade like winter. 

The procession must have looked bizarre to a passer-by—mostly children in varying states of distress, one smartly dressed pensioner, and three young, lanky men. Near fit in much better with the children.  
Matt and Mello had managed to force themselves into a pair of ill-fitting suits, while L wore his usual get-up, albeit with a black T shirt he’d borrowed from Mello. 

They’d gotten in some local hack from the funeral house to lead the procession; he read out some trite poem, presumably one he’d found after googling ‘sad poems’. He serenaded the group with his faux-sorrow, as L stared coldly at the smooth, ebony surface of Wammy’s coffin. It seemed unimaginable that he could be in there, it seemed far too small—L had always imagined his guardian as an all-encompassing presence, even after he’d grown up and become taller than Wammy. Why were the relics of L’s childhood dropping like flies, one by one?

“This guy’s a prick,” Mello hissed, eyeing the man leading the procession. “Can he at least try and act like he cares?”

“What, do you want to go and say something?” Matt muttered back.

L didn’t engage them—he didn’t want to engage anybody. He wanted to disappear.

Murdered. Quillish Wammy had been murdered—and brutally too. His neck was slit, and he’d been stabbed over fifteen times. And why? Wammy had been defenceless—his last stroke had left him completely paralysed—he was as good as dead. But clearly, for somebody, not dead enough.

L couldn’t stop wondering why it hadn’t been him—he’d made far more enemies than Wammy had, and any enemies Quillish did have would be proxy of L. Had whoever killed him meant it as a warning signal to L?

He hadn’t cried yet. His face had barely even moved. But L knew it was going to come all at once, sooner or later, and it would sweep him away like a hurricane. 

It came time to throw handfuls of soil on the coffin. L did his part mechanically, watching Rodger, Near, Matt and Mello do the same. It was almost a fun-house mirror of Beyond’s funeral, where they’d shared a similar state of disbelieving silence. Beyond hadn’t had an open-casket funeral either. 

After the proceedings were finished L broke away from the crowd and wandered around the cemetery numbly, staring unseeingly at the marble tombstones, all in varying stages of decay. He didn’t know where he’d find Beyond’s grave, if he even would. He didn’t even start consciously looking for it, he just found himself doing it. He walked slowly, unthinkingly, before sitting down at a bench and tilting his head to stare up at the sky, hugging his knees to his chest.

He fumbled through his pocket for his tobacco pouch, rolling one haphazardly, and then digging around for a lighter. To his immense irritation—he found nothing. He hadn’t even realised how much he wanted this cigarette until he couldn’t find the bloody lighter. 

“You want a light?” An unfamiliar voice asked. L looked up to see a young man, no older than him, standing in front of him, his voice clear and pleasant.

“Uh, yes, I would. Please.” L didn’t know why he felt embarrassed, but he did. 

The young man handed him one, and L greedily lit his cigarette, hollowing his cheeks as he took a long, deep inhale. He took the time to study the man who stood before him, whose hands remained in his pockets. 

“Do you want a cigarette or something?” L asked.

“I don’t smoke.”

“But you carry a lighter?”

The young man shrugged. “Comes in handy for other things. And it’s a good way of striking up conversation.”

“In a cemetery?”

“You’d be surprised. People are often more willing to talk than you’d expect.”

L narrowed his eyes slightly. The man was attractive and of east-Asian descent, despite his hair being an auburn-y brown—probably dyed. He spoke in a light accent that could have been Japanese or Korean.

“Where are you from?” L asked.

“Tokyo, originally.” The man said, smiling and sitting down next to L, leisurely stretching out his legs. The word that sprung to L’s mind was ‘regal’. “Although I’ve lived all over the place.”

“As have I.”

“Have you lived here? In Winchester?”

“I did.” L said. “As a child. Many years ago.”

There was a gust of wind, ruffling L’s hair. A woman walked past with a huge bouquet of roses, which she lay at one of the newer, marble headstones. She collapsed before it, her head dipped in sorrow. L cleared his throat. “But what brings you here?”

“To the cemetery, or to Winchester?”

“Both.”

“I was passing by. Visiting a relative.”

“Oh—I’m sorry.”

The man laughed airily. “Not visiting them here, but in Winchester. Don’t worry, they’re alive and well. But I like graveyards. They’re peaceful.”

“Maybe not at a funeral.”

The boy glanced at him, his face softening somewhat. “Oh. You were here for a funeral? I’m sorry for your loss.”

“As am I.” L put his cigarette out with the sole of his shoe. He watched the young man as he moved, for a moment, briefly catching his eyes. He must have been wearing contacts, because they were a light, hazel-amber, a colour that L had never seen on a Japanese person. His movements were graceful, deliberate and decided. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, who was it?” The man asked. Normally, L would have been reluctant to talk to anyone, but the man’s presence didn’t irritate him as much as it normally would have. 

“My grandfather.” L said—it was an easier, quicker answer than the truth. 

L could feel the young man’s gaze on him. “Were you close?’ He asked.

“Very.”

“Well, again, I’m sorry for your loss. I hope you are able to heal.”

The young man got to his feet, dusting off his lap. “Are you leaving?” L asked.

The man nodded, a half-smile on his face. “Yes, I should get going really. And I think there’s somebody waiting for you, too.”

He nodded behind L, making L turn his head. Matt and Mello were milling around a few yards away, kicking the grass and looking impatient.

“Ah,” L said. “I suppose so.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“Unlikely.”

L thought he heard the man laugh, but he couldn’t be sure. Hesitantly, he got to his feet, walking slowly towards Matt and Mello, watching the figure of the young man get smaller and smaller from the corner of his eye. Mello looked up as he approached.

“You’ll want to come back to Wammy’s.” He muttered. “There’s stuff you’ll definitely want to see.”

\-----

“We contacted the hospice,” Near said, gesturing to the screen in front of him. The bright, white light made him look even more ghostly than normal. “They sent us all of the CCTV—including the name of the last person to visit Wammy—the killer, that’s to say.”

“Did they get a name?” Matt asked.

“Yes—a Eun Yung James.”

“An alias.”

“Obviously. I’ve already cross-referenced—there’s no living person with that name.”

Mello, meanwhile, was fast-forwarding through CCTV footage. He was leaned forward, his face slightly flushed with adrenaline. He paused, his eyes widening, and punched the screen with his thumb.

“There!” He exclaimed. “That’s him.”

“Zoom in.” L ordered.

It was a man, dressed in scruffy clothes with dark hair. However, apart from that, little could be made out about his appearance. He was stood in the hallway outside Wammy’s room, hunched forward, looking perfectly relaxed. By his side a nurse, short, fat, watching the man from a careful distance.

“He’s with a member of staff.” L said, narrowing his eyes. “I trust she’s been interviewed?”

“Yes.” Near said. “She described him as being in his twenties, around six-feet tall. Of Asian heritage, speaking with an English accent.”

“What kind of English accent?”

“I don’t know. Generically southern, London, middle-class, I think. About as a generic English accent as you can think.”

L studied the blurry figure, searching for something, anything, that could be a clue.

“They don’t have security footage in the rooms?”

“No. Apparently it goes against their privacy policy.”

“That wasn’t the only flaw in the security.” Matt muttered. “With visitors who they haven’t seen before they’re supposed to cross-reference with family records. But the nurse forgot—or couldn’t be bothered.”

L silently stewed. 

“So… she could prevented Wammy’s death if she did her job properly?” Mello demanded, getting up from his seat. He was flushed red, his blonde hair in disarray. 

“Calm down, Mello.”

“Why should I be calm? If she’d just cross-referenced, Wammy would probably—”

“Being angry helps nobody.” Near interrupted, his voice smooth. “There’s no point pondering what would have happened. That’ll only end in distress. All we can do is try and catch whoever do this.”  
“How are you not angry? Wammy is—”

“Can you be quiet, Mello? Near’s right.” L said, deadpan. His eyes were fixed on the screen, scanning the movements of the nurse and the man again and again. “I’m trying to focus.”

Surprisingly, the room went quiet, apart from the sound of Near shuffling through a pack of cards. L kept replaying the movements, desperately racking his brain for something to latch on to. The man’s movements were relaxed, unsuspicious, not like the usual apprehension and guilt normally demonstrated by murderers. It was like he’d done this kind of thing a thousand times before. 

L was momentarily distracted by the sound of a fly buzzing above them, slamming itself into the skin of the lampshade, the light contorting its shadow to turn it into something great, hulking and unwieldly. It flew into the lampshade again and again, at once claustrophobic and afraid, at once drawn to the yellowy light.

Like he’d done it before. 

“It was an assassin.” L declared, getting up from his chair decisively. 

“How do you know?” Mello asked.

“The killer’s moves feel methodical… like he has no personal investment. He came to kill Wammy, to do his job. Then he left.”

“He could just be a sociopath.” Matt said. 

“Maybe. But why would he want to kill Wammy?”

Matt shrugged. “I don’t know… maybe he had enemies we didn’t know about.”

L bit his thumb. “It definitely seems premediated.”

“That much is definitely true.” Near cut in. “The killer showed identification that apparently seemed to match—it must have been made in advance. Probably for this particular purpose.”

“He seems practised.” L continued, jabbing the shadowy figure on the screen with his finger, eyes flitting over every pixel. “Like he’s done this before.”

“As if he’s just following orders.” Near returned.

“Exactly.”

“We still can’t be sure.” Mello insisted. 

“I don’t know. It’s just a hunch.”

“L’s hunches do tend to be correct.” Matt said. 

“But we don’t know for certain.”

“It’s a starting point, surely.”

“We can start by looking through records of known, active international hit men.” L said, his voice calm, despite the steady thrill of the chase starting to build in his chest. “Look for young men of east-Asian heritage.” 

“I’ll get on that now.” Near said. 

“Could Wammy have been in contact with anybody?” L asked.

“Contact?” Mello said, an eyebrow raised. “How could he have been in contact with anybody? The man couldn’t even speak.”

“He found a way.” Near said, unmoving. “We were in occasional correspondence after his second stroke.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this earlier?”

“I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“How were you corresponding?” L cut in.

“Email. He’d have his nurses type things out for him by blinking.”

“That must have been time consuming.”

“I think he wanted to remain active… even when it was near impossible. The stroke took his body but it didn’t take his mind.”

“Matt, see if you can get access to Wammy’s emails. Sift through everything—I don’t want anything missed.”

“Got it.”

L leaned forward, replaying the CCTV footage again. Whoever this was, they were probably adept at avoiding getting caught. But L was even better at catching people, even if he hadn’t done so for over a year. And once they found him, that was the key to finding whoever wanted Wammy dead.


	3. beneath a great weeping willow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We wear the mask that grins and lies,  
> It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—  
> This debt we pay to human guile;  
> With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,  
> And mouth with myriad subtleties.
> 
> (We wear the mask, Paul Laurence Dunbar)

Matt had separated Wammy’s mail from spam to anything that could be of use—he’d then passed on emails of potential interest to L to look through himself. Most of it was unlikely to lead anywhere—there was a lot of correspondence with Rodger and Near, as well as other affiliates of Wammy’s house that Quillish kept up with, along with the normal adverts and various other bullshit.

L had looked at them over and over, trying desperately to find anything that could be a lead. His eyes had become tired from all the scrolling, from all the sifting through useless rubbish. Unfortunately, the majority of the emails were incredibly mundane.

L was able to account for every person Wammy had communicated with, that was, until he stumbled across the name Raye Penber. Just the sight of an unfamiliar name had made his heart jolt.  
The unfamiliarity made L’s pulse quicken, as he quickly filtered through all messages from this mysterious Raye Penber.

“Matt,” L called out. “Do a background check on one Raye Penber, please? Forward me anything you find.”

“Got it.” Matt’s voice called back.

L clicked on the first email, squinting at the text, dated from the twentieth of November—just two weeks prior.

_Went to visit H today—he’s not doing well. We tried to convince the authorities to put him into a protected sector, but apparently he doesn’t qualify. At the moment he’s still reluctant to talk about Y.  
Regards, Raye. _

L frowned, scrolling down to any other emails. There was another—dated three days before the last.

_Back in Bangkok. I sense there may be eyes on me, and likely on H. Have attached all the notes from our last meeting.  
Regards, Raye _

L clicked on the attachment—it was a photocopy of a notebook, with scribbled notes written in a combination of Japanese and English. L’s eyes immediately went to a couple of sentences scribbled near the bottom:

_Afraid that Y might have put moles in the prison. Will talk more when his safety is assured._

He continued to skim through any notes Penber may have attached, but they were obtuse, clearly written for and to be understood by those already in know.

“Found anything more on Raye Penber?” L called to Matt. Matt skidded to him on his wheeled chair, a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

“He’s an FBI agent, from what I can gather—and a pretty good one. Although he quit just over a year ago. Born in Boston to an American father and Japanese mother—did very well in school—he has a fiancée back in Japan, too. Educated at Stanford, majored in Law—in general, seems like he’s a pretty bright guy. We can smoke in here, right?”

“If it’ll make you get more work done, fine.” L said, his voice flat. Secretly, he itched for a cigarette too. “He quit the FBI?”

“Yes—not fired. I can’t really gather why. From what I’ve seen so far he wasn’t even looking for jobs in that year after he stopped working for the FBI.”

“Did you find any contact details?”

“I found an old LinkedIn page, but that’s about it. But there are bigger problems in tracking him down than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“The guy’s been missing for nearly two weeks now. He went to Japan to visit his fiancée, went out drinking in Tokyo and hasn’t been seen since. His sister’s been posting about his disappearance on social media.”

“Do you think he’s dead?”

“Hard to say.”

“What day did he go missing?”

“The tenth of November.”

“Can you give me more details of what he was up to?”

“Here’s an article,” Matt said skidding back to his desk and pulling L with him—nearly toppling L over. L managed to salvage himself, but not his dignity. “He went to see his fiancée in Tokyo, like I said. On the tenth he went out drinking in Shibuya and was last seen chatting with one of the bar hostesses—they left together, and he hasn’t been seen since.”

“Has the hostess been investigated?”

“Ah—here’s where it gets weird.” Matt grinned, scrolling through the article. “I did some digging into the hostess and she hasn’t been since that night either. The name she was working under was Himari Takahashi—but there’s no Himari Takahashis born in the year she said she was.”

L considered for a second, before calling out to Mello.

“What is it?” Mello replied.

“You’re going to Tokyo.”

“What for?”

“You need to visit the Shibuya district and look into a Himari Takahashi. I’ll buy your tickets for tomorrow morning.”

“Will I not be investigating with you guys?” Mello stared at them like a child who’d just been rejected by his playmates.

“We need you to look into this.” L said firmly.

“On my own?”

“Are you not capable enough?” L asked.

Mello scowled. “I just feel like I’m not… really in on the action.”

“Every component of an investigation is necessary. We’re looking into Wammy’s death—there isn’t any ‘action’ to it.” L didn’t realise how venom-laced his words sounded until he’d already said them.

Mello looked stunned, but didn’t look able to come up with a rebuttal. Instead, he retured to his seat, leaning forward so his fringe concealed his face. L wondered if he were going through some kind of rebellious teenage face—it would certainly make sense with the outfit. Nobody dressed like that unless they were searching for some kind of reaction, be it negative or positive.

L returned to looking through the notes Penber had exchanged. The question now was figuring out who the hell ‘H’ was—it didn’t look like they’d be getting any leads from Penber. All the emails were, probably deliberately, obtuse.

He skimmed through the hand-written notes Penber had sent to Wammy. A few sentences held some clues, at the very least.

The SA charges aren’t doing him any favours with the other prisoners. But it’s the ML charges that gave him the bulk of his sentence.

That gave him at least some idea of who he was looking for—somebody doing time for both money laundering and sexual assault—not exactly the most typical combination.

It was a Thai girl who accused him—which was why he got locked up here rather than Japan. He’s not happy about it. I told him if he cooperates we can get him moved somewhere nicer back home in Japan.

That gave L plenty—the man they were looking for was Japanese in origin (the Japanese notes should have been an indication he was unlikely to be Thai—although L had put that down to Penber’s presumed bilingualism) serving time in a prison near or around Bangkok for sexual assault and money laundering. That narrowed L’s search significantly.

“Matt,” L called. Matt seemed to perk up as the prospect of being useful. “Can you make me a coffee?”

Matt slumped. “Is that it?”

“No. Give me a cigarette as well, would you?”

Matt scoffed, getting reluctantly to his feet. “Anything else, sir?”

“Oh, yes. Just bring the whole jar of sugar cubes with you—don’t bother counting it out.”

Matt got to his feet, grumbling something along the lines of ‘just because Wammy’s gone doesn’t mean I’m your fucking butler’.

Scrolling through offenders incarcerated in Thailand wasn’t quick work—but it didn’t take long before L found two prisoners who met his criteria. One Akira Nakamura and one Kyosuke Higuchi.

For now, he couldn’t be sure which one was the man he was looking for. So, he scribbled up a letter addressed to both men, specifying who he was, and vaguely alluding to the fact that he could help them. At the bottom, he scribbled his phone number. He sealed both of them, leaned back, and prayed that something might come of this.

\---

By the time anybody had even thought about looking for him, Light was in his Kyoto apartment enjoying the view of the city. It was a mild sort of day, but the air was tense, humid, as if impatient for the rain. On the streets below, schoolchildren were walking up the hill towards the temple, sparklers glowing through the half-dark like tiny stars, illuminating the vivid colour of their kimonos. Light sipped his tea, enjoying the early evening atmosphere.

Namikawa had called him to let him know he’d be coming over with information about his next job, so he’d better be ready. As if he ever wasn’t, he’d be sorry.

His Kyoto apartment was his personal favourite, it sat hidden on a narrow, hilly street on the first floor near the city centre, not far from Kinkaku-ji. Having spent the first ten years of his life in Tokyo, it offered a welcome change. Tokyo was all towering buildings and huge crowds—it was all dizzyingly, unimaginably big, all having being rebuilt after being carpet-bombed during the war. Kyoto felt more manageable, a relic of pre-war Japan.

He’d even gone to the local patisserie to get some cakes, a matcha crepe cake and a strawberry cream sponge, and prepared a pot of hot black tea, while he impatiently waited on the balcony for Namikawa to arrive. The cakes sat on a china dish next to the tea, steam climbing up from the spout. If Namikawa was much longer, the tea would get cold.

When Namikawa did come, he let himself in without a word.

“You could have knocked.” Light complained, getting to his feet.

Namikawa ignored him, throwing his wool coat over the sofa.

“God, at least hang up your coat. Were you raised in the jungle?”

“Did you deal with Wammy?” Namikawa said, blunt as ever.

“Of course. Can I get you some tea?” Light picked up Namikawa’s coat from the sofa, running his fingers over the buttons. “Prada. Very nice.”

“When did you get to Kyoto?”

“Last night. Still very jet-lagged unfortunately. The flight from London was ten hours. You still haven’t said if you want tea.”

“I’m fine.”

“But I bought it especially.” Light whined. “At least have some cake.”

“Has Wammy’s death hit the news yet?”

“Five hours ago, to be precise.” Light said, “I’ll show you.” He grabbed his laptop from the counter—the article was already open, closing the balcony door behind him. “It hasn’t hit anything international… yet. Look, here—‘Man found murdered in Enfield care-home.’”

Namikawa looked over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes. “You did everything I instructed?”  
“Of course. When have I not?”

Namikawa scoffed. “Were there any problems?”

“No—the whole thing went perfectly. I was pretty lucky, actually. Turns out there was supposed to be an extra security precaution in place for new visitors, and the nurse forgot to even ask.”

Namikawa scowled, tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear. “You shouldn’t be relying on luck.”  
“Your hair looks very smooth. Have you done something to it?” Light asked, reaching out to touch a strand. Namikawa slapped his hand away, his scowl deepening. “Alright, alright. No touching.”

“I don’t need any of your bullshit, Light.”

“Alright, I’m sorry. Is that want you want me to say?”

“I need more than sorry. I need results.”

“Fine, fine.” Light said, skulking to the sofa and collapsing. “Weren’t you going to tell me about a job?”

“That was the other thing. Some water, please?”

Light reluctantly got to his feet and went to the tap, hating how subservient he was to Namikawa. “I did everything I was supposed to. Didn’t I do alright?”

“Could I get some ice in that?”

Light slammed the water on the table, going to pour himself some black tea. “You never give me any credit.”

“Don’t you want to hear about the next job?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You know that I give you these jobs because I know you’ll do them better and more effectively than anybody else. You know that, don’t you, Cat?”

Light made a ‘hmph’ sound but turned away to hide his smile. Damn it, why was he so suspectible to flattery? He crossed his arms. “Fine, what is it?”

Namikawa reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph, laying it down and smoothing it out. It was a Japanese man with a Neanderthal-like face; an undersized forehead, narrow eyes, a big mouth, and spiked, greasy hair. “This is Kyosuke Higuchi.” Namikawa continued. “He’s currently serving time for money laundering and sexual assault in a Thai prison.”

Light picked up the photo, studying the face closely. He’d have to memorise every contour, every crease, so he’d be able to identify him immediately. “For how long?”

“He was only sentenced a month ago. Apparently prison isn’t treating him well.”

“Does it treat anybody well?”

“When you’re back from Thailand, meet me in Los Angeles. They’ll be five million dollars cash waiting for you.”

“Do I not get an advance?”

“Not this time. That reminds me…” Namikawa opened his briefcase, retrieving several envelopes and sliding them towards Light across the glass table. Light opened the first one to see a pile of crisp, ten-thousand yen notes. He slid his hand over the surface and held it close to his face. He’d always loved the smell of cash.  
“When should I leave for Thailand?”

“I have your tickets—your flight is on Friday.”

“Which leads me on to my next question… how am I supposed to get inside a Thai prison?”

Namikawa grinned. “I was coming up to that part, Cat.”

\----

L got the first call three days later around midday. The sound of the phone made him jolt to life, fumbling through his pocket and holding the phone up to his ear. Mello and Matt must have noticed his urgency, since they watched him with wide eyes.

You are receiving a call from an inmate at Bang Kwang Central Prison. The phone said in even Thai. Please note all calls are recorded and may be monitored.

“Sawasdee-krab.” A gruff voice said from the other line.

“This is Kyosuke Higuchi?” L asked, in Japanese.

“Yes.” The voice replied after a short pause.

“My name is Ryuuzaki. I take you received my letter.”

“Yes.”

“I’m assuming you were the man in correspondence with Raye Penber.”

“I was. Where is he?”

“I’m afraid Raye Penber has had some family issues to attend to, so I’ll be continuing his work.” L thought it wise not to let Higuchi know Penber had gone missing—lest it scare him off.

The other line went silent again. L could hear the sound of prisoner shouting and hollering in the background—laughing, swearing and shouting. “Why you?”

“I’m very good at my job. And trust me—I can get you a better deal than Penber.” L bit his thumb and leaned back. He’d have to improvise here. “Penber offered you a deal to get you transferred to a Japanese prison, right? What if I offered you something better?”

“…Something better? How?” Higuchi’s voice sounded croaky, as if he hadn’t used it in a while.

“A nice cushy British prison. The English are very liberal with crime and punishment, you know. Much less draconian than the Japanese or the Thai. And if your information turns out to be particularly useful, I can even look into getting your sentence reduced.”

“And how would you do that?”

“Oh, I have friends in all the right places, Higuchi-san.”

Higuchi paused once again. L could picture him pondering his options, perhaps looking around at his surroundings, relishing the idea of something better.

“I’m aware we only have so many minutes on the phone,” L started, “so if you want to give it some more thought—”

“I’ll do it.” Higuchi said quickly. Quite frankly, L hadn’t expected him to be quite so accommodating. “But I can’t tell you anything on the phone.”

“So you want us to come to Bangkok?”

“That’s the only safe way. I…” Higuchi sighed. “Prisoners listen in on phone conversations.” His voice became even quieter. “And I don’t trust anybody here.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve heard that—I can imagine it would be particularly intimidating from what I’ve heard about the Thai mafia. But we can come to Bangkok—that can be arranged immediately.”

You have one minute remaining. The robotic voice of the receiver bleated.

“Perfectly timed.” L said. “I’ll see you soon, Higuchi-san.” His voice was almost chirpy.  
When he put the phone down, he noticed Mello giving him a sceptical look from the other side of the room.  
“What?” He asked. He didn’t like being stared at.

“So… you’re just going to offer a convicted rapist a reduced sentence, so he helps you?”  
“We have to give him some kind of incentive to work with us—otherwise, why would he, if he has nothing to gain?”

“He’s a piece of shit. A complete, unrepentant piece of shit. He moved to Thailand because he knew his pension would go further there, aside from the obvious sex tourism appeal. And of course that pension went on opium and fucking underage prostitutes. I looked into it. The girl he raped was fourteen.”

“It’s a necessary evil.”

Mello stayed where he was, still glaring at L.

“Stop simmering, Mihael.” L said, turning his chair back towards his computer. “Besides, your flight early tomorrow morning, isn’t it? You should really be getting to bed. It’ll be a long one.”

\----

Bangkok was all noise—all shouting, motorbikes and bad driving. L was sat in the back of a taxi with Matt, who was happily ignoring him for his Gameboy.

L stared out the window—his mind solely on Higuchi. High towers stared over the busy streets below, filled with overflowing shops, bars and hotels. Everybody there was doing something, everybody was occupied. Everybody had something they were trying to achieve.

“If it interests you,” Matt said, not looking up. “Mello has arrived in Shibuya.”

“Tell him to keep us updated.”

“Of course.” Matt fumbled some more with his game, before the taxi swerved to a sudden holt, nearly face-planting L. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Matt hissed. “That made me lose. Can you slow this down?” He called to the driver.

“I don’t think he speaks English.”

“Then you ask him.”

L did as Matt asked, but the taxi-driver gave him an odd look, as if he’d asked him to go pluck a rentboy off the street on L’s behalf.

“We’re nearly there, anyway.” L said. “You don’t need to worry about it.”

“How far is this place, then?”

“It’s ten miles north of Bangkok.”

“We’re still in central! We can’t be anywhere near!”

L shrugged. “It’s all relative, isn’t it?”

The taxi swerved again, and Matt swore ferociously. They came to a stop at some lights, where a woman in her thirties walked towards the window, a cigarette dangling out of her mouth. She knocked on L’s window, and he did her best to ignore her, despite her leers.

“Fucking hell,” Matt said. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Go back to your game, then.”

“That’s not really helping.”

“If you really want, I can drop you off in a café. I can leave you with 500 baht and you can buy yourself a matcha latte, or something.”

“No! Obviously, I want to help you.”

“Then stop complaining.”

Most of the rest of the journey was silent, apart from the occasional synchronised intake of breath when Matt and L thought they were both ready to meet their maker.

From the outside, Bang Kwang prison was surprisingly attractive, ignoring the two heavily armed guards on each side of the gold-plated door. The Thai flag hung over two stone elephants, attached to high walls surrounding the rest of the complex.

As Matt and L drove past, they could see some of the prisoners in the courtyard, shirtless, smoking and fanning themselves in the sun. They paid no mind to the passing car.

“Stop here.” L said to the driver. He opened the door, Matt following his movements. They jumped out of the car and approached the guards, who regarded them through dark sunglasses.

“They don’t look friendly.” Matt said warily. “What are we going to say?”

“You won’t say anything. I’ll do the talking.”

L spoke to them in Thai, trying to sound breezy. The two men gave him an apprehensive look, then turned their attentions to Matt and shook their head.

“Why are they shaking their head?” Matt asked, sounding panicked. “Are we not going to be allowed in?”

“Unfortunately, ,you won’t be allowed in.”

“Why not?”

“Only one visitor at a time, apparently.”

“They just want bribing—just slip them some cash.”

“I only have 500 baht.”

“Oh… so you weren’t kidding about that.”

“Look,” L said, shoving the cash into Matt’s hand. “Take this, find a café or something. Wait for Mello to give you a call.”

“I’m not a child, L.”

“You’re not an adult, either.”

Matt sighed, pulling a cigarette out of his carton. “How long will you be? Do you have a light?”  
“An hour. Maximum. And no, I don’t. The Thai word is cud buhri, so you know.”

Matt looked reluctant, but nonetheless he obliged, although his expression was martyr-ish even as he walked away. “I guess I’ll see you later.” He said, tying his jacket around his waist.

Once Matt was gone, L turned back to the guards, and they stepped aside. He watched Matt disappear into the distance. L didn’t expect to feel lost without him, but he seemed to represent the last semblance of familiarity, fading into the distance.

The prison was tall and imposing—the guards gestured for him to step through a metal detector, then asking if he had any bags. He replied that he had none—but they were free to check his pockets.

The walls were all an unnatural, dead sort of white, illuminated by ugly, fluorescent strip lighting. The guards lead him through narrow hall after narrow hall, then through another security point, where they went through L’s pocket’s again, and then, finally, they were in the visitation room.

It wasn’t how L had imagined it—there were no barriers, no glass walls, no telephones. Only circular tables.

“Sit.” One of the guards told him. He was the only person in the room. He waited with his knees tucked under his chin.

Five minutes later, the guards returned with a man by their side. He was tall, with slicked-back, spiked dark hair and a wide face. His chin was broad, a spray of stubble across his jaw. He nodded at L.

“Higuchi-san.” L greeted; his voice smooth. He didn’t stand. Higuchi sat across from him, still maintaining an air of regality despite being in washed out blue scrubs.

“Ryuuzaki-san.” He said.

There was an air of formality one would expect from a job interview.

“Have you travelled far?” Higuchi asked.

“From England.”

“A long flight.”

L shrugged.

“So why has Penber become suddenly unavailable?”

“An in-law in Japan has been in the hospital.”

Higuchi raised an eyebrow. “Really? Strange. Normally Penber would write or call.”

“You know how people get during such stressful events.”

“I suppose so.” Higuchi said, stretching out his legs under the table.

“I guess you know why I’m here.” L said. He pulled a scrap of paper and pen from his pocket, ready to take notes if necessary. Although he knew he’d be able to remember everything regardless.

“I assume to ask about the Yotsuba group.”

“What else?” L laughed, as if he knew what Higuchi was talking about. Yotsuba. Could that be what the Y stood for? “But first, tell me a little about yourself, Higuchi-san.”

Higuchi stretched his neck, brow furrowed. “I was born in Japan. When I retired from the Yotsuba group I came here—to get away with it all, I suppose.”

“You’re here for sexual assault charges and money laundering charges, I hear.”

Higuchi snorted, smiling lopsidedly. “The sexual assault charges are bullshit. Some Thai whore wanted a her ten-minutes of attention—and I suppose this was the way she wanted to get it. It’s ridiculous—the authorities will listen to anything a woman says in regard to a man—even if it means desecrating his honour. They’re perfectly happy to ruin a man’s honour… but still, they have no regard for their own. I tell you—that bitch was throwing herself at me. Damn sluts…” Higuchi laughed humourlessly. “As for the money laundering charges… I suppose my past with Yotsuba just… caught up with me.”

“Quite.”

“I shouldn’t be locked up with these animals. Aren’t prisons supposed to be for real criminals?”

“Tell me more about your role within Yotsuba.”

“I already told Penber all of this. Have you not conferred?”

“We have. But remind me.”

“I wasn’t involved in any of the shady stuff… it always repulsed me, to be frank with you. I just watched over the finances. A glorified accountant, really.”

“You weren’t aware of any of it?”

“Listen—I was being told they had a business selling mattresses in the Canary Islands—how was I supposed to know it wasn’t legit?”

“Did you not suspect? Did you not ever visit—or look it up?”

Higuchi looked uncomfortable. “That’s not my job.”

“But surely you’d… wonder? At the very least?”

Higuchi’s eyes were dark.

“Anyway,” L said quickly. “That’s unimportant, for all intents and purposes.”

“Are you not going to take notes?”

“Maybe a few. But I can remember.”

“Penber always took notes. Absolutely loads—he’d fill about five pages. On both sides.”

“I’m not Penber.”

“I can see that.” Higuchi said, giving L a derisive one over.

L needed to get rid of this animosity—it wasn’t helpful.

“I’m sure you want to hear more about the arrangement in the UK, no?”

Higuchi’s eyes glinted, and he shifted in his seat. “Presumably.”

“It’s minimum security—very nice. I hear you’re allowed a Nintendo Wii, isn’t that lovely? Sounds more comfortable than my hotel, to be honest—although that’s no saying much.” The muscles around L’s mouth twitched.

“But you were talking about the shell companies, were you not?”

“I didn’t know they were shell companies.”

“I believe you. When did you find out they were?”

“The moment the feds came banging on my door.”

L definitely didn’t believe that. He sighed. “We’ll move on. You didn’t know about the laundering. Did you have any inkling that there could be other… shady stuff happening?”

“I knew that the other members of the Yotsuba group were friends with powerful people. Very powerful people.”

“What were their names?”

Higuchi’s face froze.

“I know you’re scared.” L said, trying to sound encouraging. Sympathetic, even. He wasn’t very good at either. “But we’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

Higuchi considered. “Fine.” He said. “Takeshi Ooi and Arayoshi Hatori are the names that stick out. But Hatori in particular… he was always meeting with this other guy. Long hair—young-ish.”

“How young?”

“Late-thirties—something like that. They’d always go out drinking together, but I never spoke to him personally. Nami something…”

“So they went out without you?”

“That was just how Yotsuba worked.” Higuchi looked nervous, his eyes darting around the room. “Nobody knew everything—you can’t put all your eggs in one basket—isn’t that what the English say? I didn’t realise it at the time, but I realise it now.”

“Did you ever… overhear anything you found suspicious.”

“Well, they took care to…” Higuchi trailed off, his eyes landing in the corner of the room. He seemed to have come to some kind of conclusion. “Ryuuzaki-san?”

“Yes?”

“The food here isn’t good, as you can imagine. It’s disgusting—I found a toenail in there once.” Higuchi laughed gruffly. “But the food you can get from the confectionary? That’s not so bad.”

“Hmm.”

“But… you know. It isn’t cheap.”

Oh, L got it now. “We’ll put money on your account, Higuchi-san. Don’t worry about that.”

Higuchi’s eyes glinted greedily. “Good.”

“Two minutes left!” The guard called out. In that moment, another guard opened the thick door to let a young woman in. She sat primly at one of the other tables, shooting L a disgusted look, her eyes flitting to his bare feet.

“I’ll be brief, then.” Higuchi said. “I suppose… towards the end, I thought something might not be right. Perhaps… when Kida died.”

“Kida?”

“Masahiko Kida. He was a good friend of theirs, but before the end, they began to argue. And then they found Kida dead in his flat—he’d hung himself.”

“Do you think they fell out?”

“Sure. But I don’t think he killed himself.”

Another prisoner came into the room, two guards behind him. He sat down across from the woman, and they began to talk in low tones. He shot a look at Higuchi, and the two of them regarded one another with a nod. He then continued talking with the woman across from him. The prisoner's gaze lingered on L for a moment, before he tore his eyes away.

“Everybody is suspectable to suicide, are they not? Maybe he was hurt by the disagreement.” L said.

“I suppose. But Kida had no reason to want to die. He’d been promoted, two months before he’d become Ooi’s right hand man—he’d just married this girl, she was young and beautiful,” Higuchi laughed. “Very beautiful. And stupid. An idol back in Japan. He was very happy with her. Why would he want to die?”

“Time’s up!” The guard called. Reluctantly, L got to his feet. “I will see you again soon, Higuchi-san.”

“Likewise, Ryuuzaki-san.”

As L walked out of the room, he caught the eye of the other prisoner. He was younger than Higuchi, slim and good-looking. Something stirred in L’s chest, and he turned back to look at the prisoner. He studied him for a few moments, drinking in every detail, before the door clanged closed behind him. Something about the almond shaped eyes were familiar.

\---

L found Matt in a café twenty minutes’ walk from the prison. He was smoking, playing some animated game with wizards and ogres on his laptop. He nodded at L from his seat outside, where he was laid out languidly.  
“Have you done anything productive since I was gone?” L asked, sitting down across from him.

“I have!” Matt protested, still on his laptop.

“Don’t you want to hear about my meeting with Higuchi?”

“Sure—oh, fuck.” Matt started pressing on his keep pad with great urgency. “Shit. Bastard.”

“Can’t you pause it?”

“It’s online, you can’t pause—” Before Matt could finish his sentence, L had reached out and shut his laptop. “Dickhead! I’ll have lost all my progress…”

“Did you contact Mello?”

“I just got off the phone to him.” Matt said with a sigh, “uh, excuse me?” He called to the waitress, in shaky Thai. “Another Americano, please?” The waitress nodded.

“And one for me. Bring the sugar pot too.” L cut in. “Is he in Shibuya?”

“Safe and sound. He went to the bar where Raye Penber was last seen.”

“And?”

“Apparently, it’s a little more than a bar, if you know what I mean. The hostesses were known to escort home male customers who tipped particularly well.”

“He thinks it’s a brothel?”

“A high class one. Of course, that’s technically not what it is. But if it isn’t sanctioned by the bar itself, and that’s a big if, they definitely turn a blind eye.”

“So, he was taking that hostess home?”

“Presumably. And here’s what’s even weirder—she’d only been hired a week before. None of the employees knew anything about her, apart from her name, which, we’ve gathered, is an alias. A woman of immense mystery, it would seem.”

L bit his thumb.

“Do you think she killed him?” Matt asked.

“Very possibly.”

“But they still haven’t found the body.”

“That’s the problem.” L stared into space for a moment, distracted.  
“Is something wrong?”

“Just… I got Déjà vu while meeting Higuchi. Like I’d seen someone before.”

“Who, Higuchi?”

“No… not him. It was just… I don’t know. It probably means nothing. It was just a weird moment.” The waitress put down both their coffees, and L began adding copious amounts of sugar. “I’m probably just sleep deprived.”

\---

Back at the hotel, L scrolled through pictures of known assassins from China, Korea, Thailand, Japan and Vietnam. He didn’t expect much to come from it, but it felt like he had to do something productive.  
Nobody seemed to fit the correct description—they weren’t the right age, the right gender, the right build, or the right M.O.

L was starting to feel hopeless. Finding their man was like finding a needle in a haystack. And a slippery needle at that.

He thought maybe he could look for the woman that Penber disappeared with, Himari Takahashi, but results were similarly fruitless. It was four in the morning when he drifted into a restless sleep.

\---

L dreamt he was back in the graveyard, perched on the bench. Before him sit three graves, all rotten with age, coated in a film of dust and the usual signs of age, mossing sprouting from the corners and obscuring half of the writing. On the first is A’s name, then Beyond’s, then Wammy’s. L stared down at the tombs, imaging his own sitting along the others.

L Lawliet. That was all it said, beneath the dying weeds that spread themselves over the surface of his resting place. There were no flowers, no sign of even the slightest amount of attention. Beneath a great weeping willow that encompassed their four graves.

Above his head leaves danced through the air, amber, gold and red—falling on his lap and then dissolving under his feet. For a moment he thought he could sense Wammy’s presence—that presence that had been so familiar to him for as long as he could remember. The smell of detergent and lemon-sherbets, the type Wammy had given him a packet of when they first met. He could still taste the burst of sour on his tongue—that taste that had permeated through all his fear and uncertainty.

L couldn’t remember his parents—Wammy had been the closest thing he’d ever had to family. And now even he was gone.

According to Wammy, L’s parents had been an unlikely duo. L’s father had lived in Soviet Union during the cold war and had surreptitiously provided information to the United States. He had been murdered for his actions shortly before L’s birth. He’d met L’s mother during a brief stint in Japan—she’d been an important French diplomat and celebrated socialite. After L’s father’s murder she’d fallen into a deep depression, verging on psychosis. It was during this time she encountered Quillish Wammy—a friend of her late and powerful father. He’d become a friend and confidant of sorts. One night, when L was seven, she went out to buy cigarettes and didn’t come back. Her body was washed up on the banks of the Thames a week later.  
L couldn’t remember his mother’s face, but sometimes he thought he could remember the shape of her, her smell, the feeling of her presence. Other times he thought that was all just wishful thinking, and his mind was simply filling in the gaps.

In his dream, L’s parents’ graves were nowhere to be found.  
He was still leaning against the bench when he heard a voice from beside him, gentle, controlled—even melodic. He looked up, making out the face in front of him. Attractive, smiling…

\-----

L woke up with a start. “Shit.” He said, getting hastily to his feet. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck.” He checked the clock by his bedside—it was quarter to six.

He pulled on a t-shirt, grabbed his keys and ran into the dark hallway. He groped through the dark for Matt’s door and began hastily banging on the door as loud as he could. Matt answered a few moments later. He heard somebody stir from the other side. L’s heart was racing, despite him being unsure if he was even awake or asleep.

“What is it?” Matt asked as he opened the door. His voice was groggy.

“You need to come with me.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“If we don’t leave now, our only lead will be dead in the water.”

“L, please slow down.”

“This is important.”

“We won’t find anything if we’re both dead. Do you have a driving licence?”

“I don’t need one. It’s all intuition.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, that’s the worst thing you could possibly say.”

L overtook another car haphazardly. It pulled out in front of them, making him stamp hastily on the brakes. It was dark, although the yellow-orange glow of the sun was just about visible from behind the horizon.

“See?” Matt said. “I told you so. You’re going to kill us both.”

L ignored him. “I figured out what the déjà vu was. When we were visiting Higuchi there was another prisoner… and even when I first saw him, I knew I’d seen him before.” Surprisingly, even to himself, his voice was even and calm.

“He’s a criminal, isn’t he? He might have played a peripheral role in one of your cases.”  
“That’s what I thought. But I was racking my mind… and I realised I knew where I’d seen him. I saw him just a few days ago. At Wammy’s funeral.”

“Wait, what? He was at Wammy’s funeral? How could he have been at Wammy’s funeral?”

L skidded out of the way of a motorbike. “Not at the funeral, but he was in the cemetery. I had a conversation with him. And what kind of coincidence would it to encounter the same person at Wammy’s funeral, and then again at a prison in Thailand?”

Matt was silent for a moment, staring straight ahead at the road, his face impassive. “Who is he?”  
“I don’t know. But I think I have an idea. Because that’s criminology 101, isn’t it? Killers return to the scene of the crime. It’s pathological.”

Matt was quiet for a moment. “So… you think he killed Wammy.”

“I’m certain.”

“And now he’s going to kill Higuchi.”

“Precisely.”

Matt looked blankly ahead, the streetlights painting yellow stripes down his face. “Fuck.” He said. That pretty much encapsulated how L was feeling.

“Precisely.”

L took a hard-left. Had the man from the graveyard been taunting him? What kind of psychopath were they dealing with? He stopped at a cross-roads, furiously drumming his thumb against the steering wheel. How long had these lights been fucking red? It felt like forever.

“How long do you think we have?” Matt asked, looking out the window.

“I don’t know. Not long.”

L accelerated as soon as the lights turned amber. If he carried on quickly, he could get there within five minutes.

“How the fuck did he get in there?” Matt muttered.

“Well, the fact that he did tells me whoever’s employing him has powerful connections.” L’s heart jumped—he could see the prison on the horizon. He sped up.  
The prison got closer and closer, but by the time he got close enough to see what’s going on, he knew he’d already lost.

He parked hastily and jumped out the car, but before he could get any further, he was stopped by a guard.

“I’m afraid you can’t get any closer. The prison is on lockdown.” L’s chest was constricted, for a moment, he thought his heart had stopped. He collapsed on the pavement there and then, without even realising his legs had failed him. He ran a furious hand through his hair. Matt got out the car, slamming the door behind him.  
“What is it?” He asked.

The sun was creeping up from behind the horizon. Across the sky was a huge, pink gash surrounded by orange and blue bruising. It was warm but dim enough that Matt’s silhouette was slightly hazy.

“He’s gone.” L said, breathless. “They’ve got him. I was too late.” He’d been defeated. L had lost.

At first Matt said nothing, but after a moment he sat down next to L, rubbing his temples and pulling his carton of cigarettes out his pocket and lighting one. He offered L the carton, which L accepted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kudos and comments. It's stuff like that makes me want to keep writing during this shitty quarantine.


	4. welcome to bangkok

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was angry with my friend;  
> I told my wrath, my wrath did end.  
> I was angry with my foe:  
> I told it not, my wrath did grow.
> 
> And I water’d it in fears,  
> Night & morning with my tears:  
> And I sunned it with smiles,  
> And with soft deceitful wiles.
> 
> And it grew both day and night.  
> Till it bore an apple bright.  
> And my foe beheld it shine,  
> And he knew that it was mine.
> 
> And into my garden stole,  
> When the night had veild the pole;  
> In the morning glad I see;  
> My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
> 
> (A poison tree, William Blake)

Unsurprisingly, breaking into a Thai prison wouldn’t be easy. Namikawa had used his connections to bribe the prison guards at Bang Kwang, and they’d agreed to sneak Light inside under a false identity. The problem was, Namikawa had warned him, only three people on sight would know he was an imposter, so he’d have to be extra careful. One was the warden, who Light would not be coming into contact with; the warden had only agreed to look the other way—he had not agreed to give Light any assistance. And that was after a hefty bribe. 

Another was one of the gen-pop guards, and a senior guard looking over solitary confinement. Light didn’t know who that would be—but he’d been told it would become apparent. What ‘becoming apparent’ consisted of, he had no idea. During his time there, he’d have to do his best to fit in. Then he would receive a visitor, a female visitor. That would be his cue. 

The walls of Bang Kwang were huge and daunting, climbing up the azure sky. However, on the inside, the place was surprisingly clean. Light couldn’t say he didn’t like it; he’d always been a neat freak, but he hadn’t expected the inside of a prison to look this… immaculate. There was a certain strange disconnect.

“You must run a tight ship, brother.” He said to one of the guards. All he got in response was a scowl. Presumably he wasn’t in on it.

“You’d do your best to keep your mouth shut,” the other said. “We are not your brothers.”

Light bit his tongue.

“He’d do a good job to keep his mouth shut. He looks almost like a girl, this one, doesn’t he? He’d better be careful around here. They might like him too much.”

The guards shared a hearty chuckle. Light used the opportunity to check the guard on his left, the one who’d just spoken; he was huge and muscular, with dark, mottled skin and cropped hair. There was a large mole on his chin which spread all the way up his cheek, obscuring near a quarter of his face. He had a fat, ugly face, incongruous to the rest of him—his eyes were beady, and one was lopsided. 

As they walked past the cells there were various leers and glares, Light tried to ignore all of them. He knew he couldn’t let anything bother him—and even if it did, he couldn’t let it be obvious.

The guards stopped, his keys jangling in his hand. The other guard shoved Light into his cell, and the two of them chortled as they walked away. Light made a mental note to kneecap them during his escape, if he had time. He’d have to control himself until then.   
His cellmate was sat on the top bunk—huge, tall and stocky, with overgrown hair that covered his eyes. He didn’t move when Light entered, and for all he knew, he hadn’t even realised he’d come in. 

“I’m Hiro Tsuji.” Light said, throwing his blanket over the bottom bunk. The man didn’t move. Was he even alive? Light wasn’t sure. He elected not to pursue it further.

He dropped his few belongs on his bunk and stretched back on his mattress. The mattress was, unsurprisingly, horrendously uncomfortable, and Light’s legs spilled off the edge. Good thing he’d only have to spend one night here. He changed quickly into his scrubs, making sure that as little of his skin was visible at any given time. 

* * *

Dinner was an hour later. Light queued up with everybody else, searching the faces around him for Higuchi. He also tried listening out for any Japanese, or at the very least, a Japanese accent, but he had no luck. All he saw were endless heavily-tattooed bodies tossing him dark looks, or sometimes oddly friendly looks—he couldn’t decide which was worse. 

It was six at the time Light started queueing, six-thirty by the time he got to the front. He was alarmed that nobody had approached him yet, he knew that in prison, sooner or later, somebody would challenge you, to gauge whether or not you were a coward. Light knew he wasn’t a coward, but Namikawa had stressed to him that he had to remain low-key until he received the signal. He hated the idea that he might have to ignore being disrespected; he could handle physical pain, but humiliation was another matter.

While he was here, and before he received the signal, he’d have to be Tsuji Hiro—a Japanese tourist arrested for drug possession; he was somebody of ill-repute who’d dabbled in crime, but not a hardened, career criminal, like most of the guys here were. He couldn’t draw attention to himself, that had been the condition the warden had given. Up until the signal, of course. 

By the time Light got to the front of the line his stomach was growling—he hadn’t even remembered that he hadn’t eaten until he saw the food in front of him, mushy and unappetising as it looked. Two older men stood behind the counter, with stained aprons and long beards that were almost certainly a health hazard. 

“What do you want?” One of them grunted. 

Light pointed at something green and viscous, which looked marginally preferable to the yellow mushy stuff. “That, please.” He said. 

The man nodded, using his ladle to assault the plate with food, followed by something that approximated fish. It smelt absolutely vile. He was then given a side of rice, and a bruised apple.

“Where are you from?” The man behind the counter asked, without looking up. He didn’t sound friendly, but he didn’t sound aggressive, either. His woolly chest hair poked out from under his scrubs, a thin gold chain around his tanned neck.

Light blinked. “Japan.” He replied.

The guy cocked his head, smiling slyly, his nicotine-stained teeth bared. “Not many Japanese around here. A few Westerners, a few Chinese, a couple Korean. Only one other Japanese.”

“Oh?” 

The man chuckled. “Old Higuchi. There were a few Yakuza he used to sit with before… but they were transferred.” He shrugged. “You might want to say hi. He’s probably lonely.” The guy burst out laughing after that, as did his partner. Light didn’t know what the joke was supposed to be, but he smiled along anyway. 

He looked around the room for Higuchi as he walked away, but had no luck. So, he sat alone on a wooden bench looking over the rest of the canteen, scanning his surroundings. Everyone else sat in groups, hunched forwards over their plates, laughing and eating, a few playing cards or smoking cigarettes. 

He was halfway through his dinner when he felt a presence above him. His heart sank, more out of annoyance than fear. He knew whoever it would be was trying to bother him. He looked up, trying to look nonchalant. Before him were a group of five men, all similarly sized, all covered in tattoos. They smirked down at him, their arms crossed.

“You’re new.” The leader said. Light knew his retaliation could only be limited, and that would be what hurt the most. Not the bruises, or the blood. But the embarrassment. 

He had to be fit to take on Higuchi. His retaliation could only go that far.

"You’re not wrong.” 

“You’re foreign. Where are you from?” The leader was thin as a rake but tall, with a little lean muscle in his arm. A faded tattoo of a dragon snaked from his forearm to his shoulder, partially obscured by his wife-beater shirt. 

His nationality seemed to be a recurring theme. “I’m Japanese.”

“Japanese?” The leader scoffed. “You haven’t got any Yakuza this time to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection.” Light replied, his voice thin. He kept his gaze fixed on his plates, picking at the skin of an apple with his nail, revealing the yellowy-white flesh.

That made the group laugh more. If Light didn’t have so many restrictions around him, he’d break all their bones one by one, but for now, he’d need self-control. He tried to keep eating, but before he could even take another bite, one of the goons had grabbed him by his collar and threw him the ground. Light yelped in pain, which only made them roar with laughter further.  
He remembered being in school as a small child—when he’d still been with his parents. He’d watch other kids being picked on and beaten up like this, but he’d never been the victim. He’d only ever watched from the side lines. Now, he wished he’d intervened.   
Now he could feel the eyes of the whole canteen on the back of his neck, and that now would be the time they’d decide whether or not he was a someone to receive a grain of respect, or whether he’d be at the bottom of the food chain. He hated showing weakness more than anything else, but he’d have to concede, unfortunately.

Light felt a sharp kick to his stomach, which, after knocking the wind briefly from his lungs, forced him get to his feet. He threw a punch at the leader, who seemed to relish the resistance. Light knocked him back, and when the leader lifted his head, he was grinning.

“You’re stronger than you look.” He said. A thin line of blood was coming from his nostril. “But not that strong.”

It was then that he punched back, and this time, he didn’t give Light time to get back up. He pounced on him once he landed on the floor, grabbing his hair and knocking his head against the floor. Light gritted his teeth and stared at his attacker through half-lidded eyes.  
“You look like a woman.” The leader muttered. “Are you some kind of faggot?”

Light was about to push the leader off him and turn his face into a pulpy mess, but before he could, a voice started shouting, cutting through the pandemonium. 

“Oi! Step away from each other.” It was one of the guards, one Light didn’t recognise. He was younger, with a neater uniform and haircut.  
Light looked around desperately—the whole canteen was still watching the scene play out. The leader of the group sprang back, but the guard had already set his eyes on him, a pair of daggers.

“Saae-li! Get the fuck out of my sight.” The guard yelled. Saae-li, the leader, did as he was told, skulking away and wiping the blood from under his nose with his sleeve. His group followed him, a few turning back to Light to give him a final glare. 

“You, prisoner. It’s your turn outside.” The guard said, hauling Light roughly to his feet, with almost as much force as Saae-li. He pulled Light towards the courtyard. “Don’t attract so much attention.” He said gruffly. Light nodded, walking towards the doorway quickly, and not daring to look back.

The courtyard was cool and pleasant. Thailand in the day was normally far too hot for Light’s liking, but now, in early twilight, it was the perfect temperature. There weren’t many people in the courtyard, just a few prisoners milling about and smoking roll-up cigarettes, the smoke casting a thin veil over the twilight. Light wandered around for a while like a caged lion, relishing the fresh air. Inside it was stuffy—the air felt heavy. Now, he had a moment of clarity. 

Here, the other prisoners regarded him with disinterest. Light continued to stretch his legs, staring out at the wall on the other side of the fence. Guards patrolled the space between the fence and the walls, guns slung over the shoulder.   
It was while he was stood staring out at the lawn that he noticed the bulky figure hunched against the fence, smoking on his own. He stood markedly apart from everybody else. Light had gotten lucky. 

“Oi, you have a cigarette?” Light asked, in Japanese. Higuchi looked up at him in surprise.

“Another Japanese, eh?” Higuchi said, breaking into a grin. “It’s been a while since I got to use my mother tongue. Normally I’d say no. But I’ll make an exception. What’s your name?”

“Tsuji Hiro.”

“Tsuji Hiro. I’m Kyosuke Higuchi.” He rolled a cigarette from his pouch of tobacco and handed it to Light, offering him a match. Light didn’t smoke normally—he liked to stay in the best physical shape he could—but he’d make an exception. As he inhaled, he had to stop himself from coughing. “Are you new?”

“I got here today.”

“You don’t look like you belong in prison.” Higuchi observed.

“I don’t think I do. But I’m sure you don’t either.”

Higuchi chuckled, tapping a pillar of ash off the end of his cigarette. Light took a long drag. God, it tasted fucking disgusting, but Light had to try and maintain an air of relaxation. 

“How old are you, Hiro-kun?”

“I’m twenty-five.” Light was twenty in actuality, but twenty-five was close enough. 

“Still young then.” Higuchi took a step closer to him, pointing his cigarette in Light’s direction. “Listen to me, Hiro-kun. Be careful around here. There are plenty of people in here who’ll try and do you harm.” He leaned closer, looking both ways with care. “Plenty of fags, too.”  
Light smiled graciously. “I appreciate the advice.”

“I have to go in now. My time’s up. Come and find me at lunch—we Japanese have to stick together.”

"I agree.”

Higuchi disappeared back inside after that, and with a barely visible smile on his face, Light watched him vanish through the door. 

* * *

When Light woke up the next day, he had no idea where he was. The sight of the wooden stripes above him startled him at first, as did the scratchy sheets and clinical, bleach-like smell. It took the voices around him conversing in gruff Thai for him to remember where he was.   
Breakfast was a regrettable affair—scrambled eggs that had been sitting around for hours, a slice of barely-toasted bread, and a round slice of something that Light didn’t even touch, presumably some kind of meat.   
He sat on his own, eyes flitting across the cafeteria, constantly wary. He was reminded of when he was younger, when he was so constantly guarded, like a feral animal driven into a corner. Fortunately, for him, nobody approached him at breakfast. He spotted Higuchi coming in as he left, nodding discreetly in his direction.  
Now, all he had to do was wait. The signal would come when it came—that was all Namikawa had said. A visitor would come for him, and that would be when he knew. Until then, all there was to do was wait, to watch the ticks of the day trickle past, to wait in impatient agony. 

He spent most the day pacing with manic neuroticism up and down his concrete cell. His cellmate watched from the top bunk, staring at him over the top of a magazine. Light had always hated waiting, ever since he was young. He was good as masquerading as patient and calm, but inside, his restlessness would tear up his insides. When the guard finally came to tell him he had a visitor, Light had to stop himself from smiling. Instead he nodded graciously and followed the guard through the narrow halls, his heart racing. It was the beginning of the inevitable adrenaline rush, the beginning of the opiate thrill that came before every kill. It wasn’t something he was proud of. He was, however, surprised when he was escorted to the visitation room and sat in front of Kiyomi; who wearing huge sunglasses pushed off her face, pinning her bangs back. She hadn’t tanned at all despite the heat, although her cheeks were flushed a light pink. She had furloughed her normal turtleneck for a creamy, chiffon blouse and a wispy Burberry scarf around her slender neck. When he sat across from her, she didn’t say hello, she just quirked an immaculately shaped eyebrow at him. He knew she’d acquired a distaste for him over the past few months, although she insisted it had nothing to do with his romantic rejection of her. “Sawasdee.” He said. Kiyomi frowned for a moment. She reached into her crocodile skin bag and withdrew a photo. It was a picture of Kiyomi with some unknown girl. In thick, white felt pen, the words ‘don’t be weird’ were scrawled across the front. Light nodded.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” He said in a low voice. 

“Namikawa told me to come.” Kiyomi’s murmured back.

“Does he not trust me?”

Kiyomi shrugged, looking self-satisfied. “Act like I just told a fantastic joke.”

Light laughed heartily, leaning back as he did so. As he went backwards, he noticed that, to his surprise, there was somebody else in the room. Upon closer inspection, Light realised it was Higuchi—fat, sweaty—chatting to some unknown visitor. Light had to contain his discomfort at seeing him here—the man he planned to murder before the sun set. It was odd to see Higuchi here, like any other prisoner. Rationally, Light knew he was like any other prisoner. But to see him interacting with the outside world seemed strange.  
Higuchi noticed him and nodded, and Light nodded back. He couldn’t see who Higuchi was talking to, just a mass of matted black hair. His attention returned to Kiyomi.

He’d expected some nameless goon to be the one to come and give him the signal, but if Namikawa had sent Takada, he really did want to keep an eye on Light. He trusted Kiyomi—at least he trusted her as much as Namikawa could trust anybody.   
But why would he suspect Light? Light was the last person to be disloyal.   
He continued talking with Kiyomi, making idle small talk simply to pass the time and appear non-suspicious. Light’s eyes drifted between the clock and Kiyomi’s face; he was impatient to get out, the rush had started to take over his body—the restless excitement of visiting an old friend. Because now that he’d received the signal, his heart had started to race beyond control. The wait was accelerating. And to see Higuchi just in front of him?

It was odd to think Higuchi was in the same room, chatting mindlessly with a visitor, not knowing his death was just around the corner. Higuchi’s body language was arrogant, as if he were lounging around his own house, and not in the visitation room of a prison.   
Generally, Light didn’t care about who his victims happened to be—he was doing his job. He figured nobody who was fundamentally good had a hit put out on them; he figured killing them was doing the world a favour. Still, he didn’t enjoy it. Sure, he enjoyed the build-up, the chase—but when it came to the killing itself, he was apathetic, forensic in the motions. But something within him wanted to see the life drain from Kyosuke Higuchi’s arrogant face. 

Now, Higuchi and the visitor were getting ready to go their separate ways. It was then that Light got a look of the visitor’s face—gaunt, pallid, a pair of huge, coal-coloured eyes partially obscured by dark, floppy hair.  
It took Light just a few seconds to realise it was the man from the graveyard. The realisation dawned on him slowly—a cool rush slowly enveloping his body.   
His head started spinning, and it took everything in Light’s power to stay still. But he managed it, like he always did.  
Although he carried on speaking to Kiyomi to keep up appearances, his mind sped on, considering what this meant for him, and how, and if, he could circumvent it. 

Before Light could get started—he needed a shower. The sticky heat was omnipresent, lurking in every corner, stifling and heavy. In the visitation room the ventilation had broken, making the air thick and sticky. Light had already accumulated a sheen of sweat over the expanse of his back. 

As Light turned on the lukewarm water and stared at the off-white tiles straight ahead of him, he thought back to the man in the visitation room—the one visiting Higuchi.   
When he’d first seen him at Wammy’s funeral he’d noticed how odd he’d looked, scrawny, hunched over, sallow, impassive. He’d assumed it was one of Wammy’s various protegés, but what had he to do with Higuchi? Wammy had dozens of protegés.  
Light knew nothing about Higuchi—only that he’d been tasked to kill him. He’d never asked Namikawa what exactly he’d done. But if he and Higuchi were both on the kill-list, there was a chance they had something in common. Perhaps the man with the black hair had put some of the pieces together; it wasn’t beyond impossible. Light’s mind whirred with thousands of possibilities. 

The water coming from the shower was weak, a tepid dribble down his back. As he glanced around at the men around him in varying stages of undress, he noticed he was probably the only one who wasn’t completely covered in tattoos. Light had just the one—and that hadn’t been his choice. It was inked across his ribs, faded with age. He’d been told the ribs were one of the most sensitive places to get a tattoo, but when Light had it done, he hadn’t felt a thing. He’d been so numb all he’d felt was a faint scratch. He stared down at word, barely visible unless you were looking. One word—his own personal branding. Segments had healed oddly due to constant itching, as well as the lack of sanitation when it was done—one word. 

_Yotsuba._

Once Light had finished scrubbing his skin with thin, watery soap, he turned the water off. He dried himself quickly, turning to reach for his clothes, but as he turned around, he saw a figure in the doorway of the shower. He jumped back, nearly slamming his head against the wall. 

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He said, a hand on his chest. 

It was the guy from the cafeteria, a few of his goons hovering behind him. Saae-li, that was his name. He stood with his arms crossed again, his eyes amused, playful, even. 

“You’re Hiro.” He said. He was fully dressed, which made Light uncomfortable. His arms were crossed across his chest. 

“Yes.” Light said thinly, glancing at the men surrounding him. “Do you mind if I put my clothes on before we carry on with introductions?”

“I’m Saae-li.”

“Charmed.”

Light reached for his clothes, put before he could touch them, one of the goons grabbed his arm and twisted it back. Light yelped and jumped back. 

“You don’t look like anyone else here.” Saae-li said. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Saae-li snorted. “You think you’re better than us, don’t you?” He took a step forward. “You walk around here like some kind of prince. I don’t like it.”

“I don’t think I’m better than you, okay?” Light lied. “Can you let me get dressed now?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, that’s up to you.”

The group were cackling now, although Saae-li still looked deadly serious. He had a crooked sort of face, Light thought, probably rearranged in one too many fights. He took another step forward.  
There was only so much room in the shower cubicle, and Light was forced to step backwards until his back was pressed against the cool, tiled walls. They must have deliberately chosen to approach him like this, when he was at his most vulnerable. Where he couldn’t get away easily. 

“What’s the word they use in Japanese?” Saae-li said. “Hmm. Hiro-sana, right?”

Light huffed. “Sama would be the—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Saae-li already had him by the throat, his thumb slowly constricting around Light’s windpipe. Light had been trained in many ways to kill a man, but there was something so unavoidable about being choked. They escalating inability to breathe, the way your vision started to blur—how you were so powerless, at the mercy of whoever’s grip you were in. Namikawa had choked him once, when he was fifteen, when he strayed too much off the designated path. That terror returned to him now—five years on.  
The nail that sticks out has to be hammered down. Namikawa had told him, after he released him. Namikawa wasn’t often violent, but when he was, you knew something was seriously wrong. 

He was reminded of that now, as black spots began to appear in his vision. He clambered under Saae-li’s grip, clawing desperately outwards. He knew that if he just got out of his grip, he’d be able to fight back.  
Just as Light thought he was going to pass out, Saae-li loosened his grip, but the pressure still left Light dizzy. He noticed that in Saae-li’s other hand was a shank, fashioned from wood, or something similar. 

“I don’t like snobs.” Saae-li said quietly. 

If it were just Saae-li, Light had no doubt he could fight back, even kill him if he needed to. But he’d brought at least five of his gang—which would be much more challenging. Saae-li had him against a wall—which severely limited his options. But there was always a way to defend yourself.

Light jutted out his knee, hitting Saae-li directly in the crotch.   
Saae-li cried out and fell backwards. When he looked up, his eyes were cold—but before he could get near Light, Light was attempting to make a break for freedom, but one of Saae-li’s men had grabbed him by the arm and thrown him back. Light’s head hit the wall, hard, and he slid down to the floor. When he felt the back of his hair, his hand came back wet and warm.   
He tried to get to his feet, but Saae-lie sprung back on top of him, grabbing both of his wrists and pinning them over his head. Light struggled, but his vision was starting to blur. His head was still throbbing he stared up at Saae-li with as much irreverence as he could muster. He tried to move his legs, but another one of them had his feet held down. Saae-li started to punch him, again and again, until the corners of Light’s vision turned red. He went momentarily limp, and as he did so he felt another hand haul him up by the hair and grab his throat, then slam his head against the wall once again. 

He let his muscles relax for a moment, his head propped up only by the side of the cubicle. It was only then, when he looked down, that he realised he was still naked.   
His head was pounding, and when a hand wrapped back around his neck and squeezed, pushing him forwards, and Light automatically put out his hand to support himself. He felt a hand wrap around his stomach, and when he felt the man behind him pull his hips backwards, he realised, with disgust, what Saae-li and his group were trying to do. 

Horrified, his head spasmed and he begun to struggle again. At first, he wasn’t sure what to do, hearing the increasing laughter coming from behind him. He managed to loosen the grip around his neck for a moment, and struggling slightly, sunk his teeth as hard as he could into the hand around his neck.   
There was a sharp yelp, and the hand spasmed, then let go, finally giving Light space to get out of a vulnerable position. He turned around and punched blindly, feeling his fist hit flesh, then a body that wasn’t his flop to the floor, limp. He jumped on it like an animal, strangling its neck as they’d strangled his, and as his vision started to clear, he saw it was the man himself, Saae-li.   
“Get—the fuck off—me!” Saae-li yelled, “you little—fucking—bitch!” Light spat on him.  
None of his henchmen were helping him, however, as if caught up watching the fight for themselves.   
Light kept one hand on Saae-li’s neck, his other touching the other man’s face, in a cruel parody of a caress. He traced the lines of Saae-li’s nose, then then the crease of his eye socket. Saae-li looked up with him with wide eyes, and although he looked agitated, he didn’t look scared.   
Light could change that. 

The movement was swifter than Light thought it would be. He pushed his fingers into the crease of Saae-li’s eye socket, feeling the breaking of tendons and veins beneath his fingertips. Saae-li started to scream, so Light kept pushing, until Saae-li’s eye was nothing was a bloody chasm. Saae-li’s eye was warm and throbbing. Light stared down at it, and the eye stared back. His vision was still blurred, his head still pounding. He could hardly hear, but he could hear yelling. He got to his feet—Saae-li didn’t try to get up with him—he’d probably gone into shock. He just lay on the floor whimpering, blood streaming down his face and onto his jumpsuit, saturating the floor. With an unusual calmness, Light got silently dressed. His hand was streaked with scarlet, stark against his washed-out surroundings. As he looked down, he noted numbly that the water pooling in various crevices had turned pink.

Saae-li’s gang had cleared off, as had everybody else in the bathroom, it seemed. If Light were a normal prisoner, he’d be scared right now—nut he wasn’t a normal prisoner. He slumped against the wall, eyes half closed, waiting for what would come next, Saae-li by his feet.   
The guards came within minutes. One slammed Light to the floor, and the other cuffed him. The handcuffs were too tight, cutting into the skin of his wrist. They hauled him to his feet and dragged him away from the other gawking prisoners, then through a hall, then another. Two other guards were on each side of the guards who already had him—extra precautions, clearly. They were talking to one another in rapid Thai, too fast and heavily accented for Light to understand. 

Solitary wasn’t as big as Light had expected. Just a few cramped cells with pale blue walls and flickering strips of fluorescent lighting. The guards shoved Light inside a cell and locked the door. His cuffs had been loosened, but they weren’t taken off.   
Once he was alone, Light slumped against the wall, and started to laugh, his throat so hoarse that all that came out was air. 

Light didn’t know how long he’d been alone, asleep but not really, staring at the ceiling of his cell, impatient. He knew someone would be coming, but he had no idea when.  
Namikawa had instructed him that once he received the signal, he was to get himself into solitary confinement. By any means necessary. It was unfortunate for Saae-li, really. 

But once he was in solitary, he had no idea what would happen next.  
Just wait, Namikawa had told him.  
His handcuffs were still on, too, and although they’d been loosened somewhat, they still chaffed the insides of his wrists until they were sore.  
There was no clock in solitary confinement, and the tiny, rectangular window only let a limited amount of brittle light into the room. All he could see that it was starting to get dark outside.   
Light got to his feet with a yawn, meandering towards the door. He pushed open the peep hole with some difficulty, and was greeted by the sight of a guard’s khaki-clad back.

“Oi,” he called out. “Can I get something for my head?”

The guard didn’t move. 

“My head is killing me,” he continued. “It’s really hurting. Can I get an aspirin or something?”

Still no reply. 

“Are you going to take my cuffs off?”

Still nothing. Light sighed, letting the peep hole close, returning to his bed. 

He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, only that he drifted into a light sleep. He dreamt he was twelve again, and that he was back in Tokyo. He was vaguely aware of looking for his father in a crowd, although he realised now that he’d forgotten what he looked like. In his memory, Soichiro Yagami’s features had been smeared by the passage of time. He thought he saw his father, and went bounding towards him, tearing past faceless passers-by. But when Soichiro turned around, he wasn’t Soichiro at all, he was Namikawa, his hair greyed and pulled back.   
Next thing he knew he was running, at first from Higuchi, then from Namikawa, and then from the man with the black hair he’d met at the cemetery. Then when the black-haired man opened his mouth, he had the voice of Saae-li. 

* * *

He was awoken when the door started to rattle. Light bolted up, squinting up to see that it was still pitch-black outside. One lone star was visible through the window, dim and blinking. The door swung open with a clang, and the guard from outside entered, holding a plate of vile-looking food, giving Light an apprehensive look.

“Get up.” The guard ordered. He was tall, with cropped hair and tribal neck tattoo. 

Light did as he was told, shuffling towards the guard and holding out his arms. Without a word, the guard put the food down, and undid Light’s handcuffs. 

When they finally came off, Light rubbed his wrists, staring greedily at the plate of food. It didn’t look good, but he was starving.   
The guard told him to get back, then left, leaving the food on the side. Light started eating immediately, first gnawing at a hunk of bread, then starting with what looked like mashed potatoes. He pinched his nose, swallowing without tasting.   
He was on his third bite when he felt something cold brush against his tongue—something that was definitely not food. It was solid, and hard. Then something wet and metallic flooded the inside of his mouth.

Light spat the food out, seeing the mashed potatoes were streaked with pink. Something in the potatoes glinted—something shiny and silvery. He pulled it, whatever it was, out, and examined it. 

It was a razor, thin as paper, but very sharp. He examined it between his fingers for a moment, his warped reflection staring back. He shoved it hastily in his pocket, hoping it wouldn’t cut through the fabric. 

So there really was somebody on the inside looking out for him. 

He forensically examined the plate for anything else, and when he moved the glass of water, he noticed a note underneath, barely bigger than the nail of his thumb. 

Stay where you are. He’ll be here soon. It said, in tiny, barely legible writing. But it was written in Japanese—a sign of presumed solidarity.  
Light swallowed the note quickly, forcing the scrap of paper down his parched throat. His mouth still tasted like blood. 

“Stand aside, prisoner!” The guard called out, startling Light. He still didn’t know what time it was—it couldn’t have been earlier than eleven. He’d been in a daze. 

The door swung open, and hunched over, his hands cuffed, was Higuchi. At first, his gaze was suspicious, but then they flooded with recognition. He sat on the other bed, throwing the guard a final look. For a moment, the guard met Light’s eye. They shared a look for a long moment, then the guard was gone. 

“What a coincidence,” Higuchi muttered. He sniffed. His eyes were puffy, like he’d been crying. Despite what he said, he didn’t look surprised. “So… was it you?”

Light’s muscled tensed. “Was what me?”

“Saae-li.” Higuchi said. “They said someone ripped his eyes out. I didn’t believe them.”

Light didn’t answer. 

Higuchi exhaled—it could have been a laugh, Light couldn’t be sure. “I thought you seemed… chilled out. Normal, even. I suppose not.” He snorted. “I guess that’s what you get for mistaking someone here for normal.”

“He had it coming.”

“Must have been quite the fight.” Higuchi said, his eyes scanning Light’s face. “You look rough.”

Light reached up, tracing the still-sore bruises on his face. His bottom lip had swollen up like a fruit. “You should see the other guy.”

Higuchi didn’t move, didn’t say anything. “It’s weird timing, isn’t it?” He stared at the window. “I woke up today and felt something strange in the air—like something terrible was going to happen today.” He sighed, scratching the stubble that had sprouted across his chin.

“Intuition is a strange thing.” Light replied. 

Higuchi scratched his chin again, watching Light for a long moment, then sitting back down. “I don’t feel good.” He said slowly. 

Light reached in his pocket, feeling the cool, smooth surface of the razor in his pocket. “That’s understandable.”

“So… tell me, Hiro-kun. Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Saae-li.” Higuchi’s eyes narrowed. “Nobody does that just for fun. Unless you’re a psychopath with no lucidity, which doesn’t seem to be the case for you.”

“How do you know?”

“You said intuition is a powerful thing.” Higuchi chuckled. “Well, that’s my intuition.”

“Does it matter?”

“I’d say it does.”

Light cocked his head. “As I say, he had it coming.”

Higuchi stared into space for a moment. “Why?”

“I don’t like to get into details.”

“He had it coming?”

“He had it coming.” Light examined his nails. “Most people who get hurt like that… they have it coming. Most of the time.”

Higuchi chuckled. “Are you sure about that?”

“Most of the time. Good people stay out of trouble.”

“Do you stay out of trouble, Hiro-kun?”

Light didn’t reply. Higuchi cleared his throat, looking around the cell. “I never thought I’d end up somewhere like here, you know.” He said wistfully. “I was a big-shot, you know.”

“Oh yeah?” Light said, with an empty smile. “What did you do?”

“I was an accountant, essentially.”

“An accountant?”

“Yes. But for important people.”

“Sounds interesting.” Light said. “I bet you earned a lot.”

“A fair amount.” Higuchi replied. “But it was dangerous. I worked with dangerous people. That was my mistake”  
“Hmm.”

“It catches up to you.” Higuchi said. He sounded pensive. “Working with dangerous people.” His gaze moved to the ceiling, as if trying to recall something.

“I suppose it does.” From outside, a dog barked, cutting through the silent night. “You seem preoccupied, Higuchi-san.”

“Just thinking about all the mistakes I made. That’s what you’re supposed to do in prison, right? What was it Robert Southey said? The birds always come home to roost.” He stared at the window. “I… I suppose I preoccupied.” His shoulders slouched inward, as if he were trying to make himself appear smaller. 

Light touched his head, rubbing his temples, hoping the pain in his skull would dull. He wished Higuchi would stop talking. 

“Hiro-kun?” Higuchi asked. 

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Depends on the question.”

Higuchi laughed humourlessly; his eyes still averted. “Tell me the truth.”

“I can’t guarantee that.”

“Are you here to kill me?”

There was a beat, then Light laughed. “What makes you ask that?”

“Ever since I got here… I got the feeling that something was coming. Something bad. That Yotsuba would finish their business.”  
“Hmm.”

“So, I’ll ask you again.” Higuchi cleared his throat. “Are you here to kill me, whoever you are? Because I get the feeling Hiro isn’t your real name.”  
Again, Light didn’t speak. He supposed that was answer enough.

Higuchi blinked, then looked away. He didn’t look surprised. In fact, if Light had to place his expression, he’d say he looked relieved, almost. 

“Right,” Higuchi murmured, sniffing slightly. Light noticed in the fluorescent light that there were purple bags under his eyes. “Do you have a smoke?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“That’s a shame.” Higuchi said, with a sigh. “I’d want one last smoke, before I die.”

“Sorry about that.”

“I don’t know what I expected. A polite hitman?”

He laughed again, his voice scratchy, echoing in the empty cell. His eyes looked wild. 

“It’s difficult, I know.” Light said smoothly. “But the only way you can deal with it, is to make peace with it.”

“Have you made peace with it?”

Light scowled. 

“Because it’ll be your turn soon, you know that, right? On the path you’re on. It caught up to me, so it’ll catch up to you, too. The birds always come home to roost.”

“Chickens.”

“What?”

"The chickens come home to roost. That’s the quote. Not birds.”

Higuchi look grim, then the corners of his mouth cracked into a weak smile “You’re right. Chickens, not birds. I was mistaken.”

Light carried on tracing the outline of the razor in his pocket. He noticed Higuchi fumbling under the bed, realising a second too late he’d managed to yank a mental poll free. Higuchi moved quickly, more quickly than Light would expect of a man of his age—he lunged at Light like an animal, but before he could do anything, Light caught his arm and twisted it back, at an angle that arms weren’t supposed to go to.Higuchi screamed in pain, buckling to his knees. He dropped the metal poll, and it rattled against the floor. Light picked it up and pocketed it. 

“I told you.” Light said. “Why wouldn’t you listen? You have to make peace. That’s how you stay peaceful in death.”

“Who are you?” Higuchi asked, his voice hoarse.

“I’m nobody.” Light said. He grabbed Higuchi by the leg, dragging him towards him.

He had to finish this quickly. Not out of mercy, but out of necessity. 

It felt like no time at all, between Light staring at Higuchi’s corpse, perfect and silent, and the cell door swinging back open. Higuchi’s blood looked black in the fading light, like a polaroid. It had started to dry, and was a horrible, viscous texture. It had stained the soles of Light’s shoes.   
Light lay on the bed, once again, staring at the ceiling, examining every crevice and groove. The razor was somewhere on the floor, discarded.   
His eyes were closed when he felt someone grab his arm and haul him to his feet. A piece of fabric was tied over his eyes, but Light didn’t think to scream; he didn’t think anything. 

“Don’t speak.” A voice hissed. It spoke in Japanese, gruff and heavily accented. He was pulled further, and Light let himself be dragged along like a rag doll. He found himself smiling, despite it all, thinking of the black, pulpy hole where Saae-li’s eye had been.   
The hand let go of him, and the blindfold was pulled from his eyes. Light found himself dazzled by fluorescent, artificial, blue tinged light. He tried to turn around to look at whoever had brought him here, but he was shoved away. 

“Don’t look.” The voice said gruffly. “Put those clothes on.”

Light looked at his feet, where, sure enough, a pair of slacks were, identical to the ones the guards wore. He got changed, feeling prickle of eyes on his neck. Every time he moved a little to the left, the voice barked at him not to look.   
Once he was changed, the arm grabbed him again, and the blindfold was returned. He was pulled along for what felt like hours, stumbling and grabbing blindly, no idea where he was. Finally, he felt the light breezwe of a warm, tropical evening. 

“You have to run.” The voice said. 

“What?”

“You have to run. Run straight ahead, as quick as you can. Don’t look back. Car will be waiting.”

“Who are you?”

“None of your business.”

“Can you at least take this blindfold off?”

A rough, dry hand returned, slipping the blindfold off. “Thank you.” Light said. He examined his surroundings, lit by the roaming torchlights of guards, and the pale light of the moon. 

“You need to run. Now.”

Light didn’t need to be told twice. He ran straight ahead, as quickly as he could, and didn’t look back. He didn’t have any shoes on, and could feel the cool, damp blades of grass beneath his thumping feet. He took care to avoid any light—he couldn’t be caught now.   
He was running for a while before he saw the SUV, its headlights turned off, parked haphazardly in the middle of the grass. Light heard the sound of barking dogs and sped up.   
He didn’t even bother to look at the driver before clambering into the back seat. Before the door had even shut, the car lurched to life.   
Light panted, regaining his breath, his eyes scanning the two people in the front seats. A woman was sat in the passenger seat—her dark hair was cut short, at the nape of her neck. She was slim, her blood red, manicured nails resting neatly on her lap. 

“Kiyomi?” Light asked, still panting. 

“You’re an idiot.” The voice replied shortly. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“What are you talking about.”

“That boy. The one you put in hospital.”

“I had to.”

“You drew unnecessary attention to yourself.”

“Namikawa told me to get into Solitary Confinement, that was it. And I did what he said.”

“You didn’t need to do it like that.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it? I can never do anything right, at least to you.”

Kiyomi glared at him in the rear-view mirror. The car was accelerating, clambering over fields and through trees, still without its headlights on. The driver didn’t look at or acknowledge either of them, his eyes set straight ahead of him.

“I’ve figured out your problem, you know.” Kiyomi said. She reached into her back, withdrawing a tube of gold and pink lipstick. She coated her lips, her back stiff. “You’re a narcissist, that’s your problem. All you care about is attention.”

“That seems unfair. I got the job done, didn’t I?”

“You need attention. You’re a user. You don’t have any empathy for others.”  
“Last time I checked, Kiyomi, you killed people for money, too.”

“It’s not about that.” Kiyomi hissed. “Attention. That’s all you ever want, isn’t it Light? That’s why you did that. Because you like the attention.”

Light leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. His head still hurt. “I don’t have the energy to be psychoanalysed. Where’s Namikawa?”

“He’s in Tokyo.”

“We’re going to Tokyo?”

“Yes. Our flight leaves in two hours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed the super long chapter. If you enjoyed, comment and leave a kudos, cos sometimes I think I'm just yelling into the void with this fic, lol. Much love <3


	5. towards takao

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in time of daffodils (who know  
> the goal of living is to grow)  
> forgetting why, remember how
> 
> in time of lilacs who proclaim  
> the aim of waking is to dream,  
> remember so (forgetting seem)
> 
> in time of roses (who amaze  
> our now and here with paradise)  
> forgetting if, remember yes
> 
> in time of all sweet things beyond  
> whatever mind may comprehend,  
> remember seek (forgetting find)
> 
> and in a mystery to be  
> (when time from time shall set us free)  
> forgetting me, remember me.
> 
> (in times of daffodils, e.e. cummings)

  
“I guess… he was pretty young. Relatively speaking, that is. He was in his early twenties, I’d say—couldn’t have been older than twenty-four.”

“What was his face like?”

L cleared his throat. It felt dry and sore—which was what happened when he started smoking cigarettes before he’d eaten something. “East-Asian. Attractive.”

“But what were his features like?” Linda’s voice was patient, her blonde hair tucked behind her ears, her gaze alternating between L and the paper in front of her.

Lately, L had been finding it difficult to speak. Words seemed to get trapped in his throat before he could say them properly, so he found himself replying to people monosyllabically, his intonation flat. 

“He had light brown hair, kind of auburn. Hazel-ish eyes. I remember thinking they looked unusual for an Asian person… oh yes, he had bangs in his face. His eyes sort of… turned up at the ends, if that makes sense.” L bit his thumb, trying to think. Normally his memory was near photograph, but he was finding this surprisingly difficult. Linda continued scribbling on her pad. “He was thin, around my height, when I’m standing straight, that is. Let’s see… slightly tan. He had a thin face. Oh yes, he had a chin that was sort of pointed at the end…”

Linda continued to sketch, turning the pad around so L could see it. “How’s that?” She asked. L studied it.

It wasn’t that it wasn’t a good drawing—it was excellent, but something about it just wasn’t right. Perhaps it didn’t quite capture the man’s expression, the precise proportions of his facial features. Whatever it was, something was off. 

“I think his hair was longer, at the front.” L said quickly. “It fell in his eyes.” He scratched the back of his head. “And… uh… I’d say he was better looking.” He could feel Mello’s scorn from across the room. “And the chin was narrower.”

Linda took the pad and made some adjustments. Her movements were slick and practised, her wrist and fingers moving with absolute ease. The four of them—Matt, Mello, L and Linda, sat in silence, the only sound being the scratch of pencil against paper. Linda turned the picture around again, displaying it to everybody in the room.

“How’s that?” She asked L.

“That’s better.”

Linda passed it to Matt, who examined for a moment, then got to his feet. On the wall they had assembled an arrangement of all the clues they had gathered so far; on one corner were Raye Penber’s notes, pinned next to screenshots of his emails with Wammy, then the crime-scene photographs of Higuchi’s body. Apart from that, the wall was depressingly bare. 

Matt planted Linda’s drawing right in the centre. L had to admit the second rendition was much more successful—it really did feel like the cool, calculated eyes of the man from the cemetery was staring at him from the opposite wall.

“Tell me again,” Mello said. “What did he say to you in the graveyard?”

“I told you earlier.”

“I want to write it down.”

“The only thing of use I can remember is that he said he was from Tokyo originally. Not that that matters, he was probably lying. If I were him, I would have lied.”

Matt’s eyes were glued to his laptop, the artificial blue-white light making his eyes looked glazed-over. The light obscured his pupils, making his irises look empty. “I’ve gone through all the databases of active Japanese hitmen—and none were a match. I figured he could have been lying, so I checked in Korea and Thailand, too. Even China—which took fucking forever.” He sighed. “There’s nothing.”

“He’s Japanese.” L said, his voice assertive for the first time in days. 

“How do you know?”

“When I saw him in the visitation room, he was talking to a woman in Thai. But occasionally they slipped into Japanese—it was only once or twice. But I heard it.”

Matt leaned back, putting his hands behind his head. “So… he’s likely Japanese. But whoever he is, he isn’t on any database. There’s no record of him.”

“Maybe he’s new to the job.” Mello suggested.

“Or,” L filled in. “He’s excellent at what he does.”

“What did the woman look like?” Linda asked, her pencil poised. L racked his brain. He’d barely looked at her, too distracted by everything else going on.

“She was also east-Asian, short hair. Around the same age.”

“How long was her hair?”

“Just above her shoulders.”

Linda started scribbling again. L got to his feet, plucking the picture of Higuchi’s murder scene off the wall. The scenes were gruesome—blood was splattered all over the ground, like a grizzly parody of a Jackson Pollock piece. Some splatters had even reached the ceiling. But the most chilling thing of all was Higuchi’s cold, staring eyes, fixed at some point in the middle distance. L had seen plenty of crime scenes in his time, and this was nowhere near the bloodiest or the most gruesome, but something about it was certainly chilling. Maybe it was how peaceful Higuchi’s corpse looked, despite the pandemonium surrounding it. 

“Whoever he is,” L said. “He has connections—powerful ones too. He was able to get in and out of a prison. You can’t do that on your own.”

“This just cements the suspicion he’s a hitman. He’s just following somebody else’s orders.” Mello said.

“But if we can find who’s pulling the strings, we’re in business.” L’s eyes landed on the pictures of Wammy’s murder scene, stuck just above his head. He looked away hastily, although the image had already been cemented in his brain. He didn’t like to look at those pictures and avoided them whenever possible. He heard the click of Matt’s lighter as he lit a cigarette. 

“I’ve been glad to help you,” Linda said, getting to her feet. “But I really have to get back.” She checked her watch. “I still have a job, you know. A regular nine-to-five.”

“Yes, I know. And I thank you for all your work.” L said, unmoving. “There’s a reason you’re the best in the business.”

“You flatter me, L. And I wish you luck.” She said breezily, reaching for her briefcase and slinging her violet peacoat over her shoulders. Although she looked sleek and professional, as was probably necessary in her line of work as a forensic artist, she still had an eccentric, almost bohemian edge to her. Her blonde hair was cut into a trendy, choppy bob, her lips painted red. She wore leather ankle boots and a red skirt that swished around her calves—she looked put-together, glamorous, even. Far from skinny little girl in red wellies, covered in bruises and dirt from playing outside all day, that L remembered. “I loved Wammy just as much as you did.” She nodded at Matt and Mello, thanking them quietly. 

“I’ve no doubt you did. Thank you, Linda. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Catch the bastard who did this.” L met her gaze for the first time; it was wounded, but still determined.

“I’ll do everything I can to make sure that’s the case.”

Linda nodded, closing the door swiftly behind her. There was a moment of quiet after the door clicked shut. 

“Matt,” L said. “Leave the records about active assassins and start looking through missing children records.”

“Missing children records?” Matt raised an eyebrow. “Do you realise how many children are missing in Japan? A fuck-ton, that’s how many.”

“No way he’s younger than sixteen, or older than thirty. But we’ll look in that range anyway, to be on the safe side. Find any records of missing Japanese boys born between 1978 and 1993. That should cover it.” L scratched his face. “They’ll still be a lot. It might take you some time. But it’s a place to start, and right now, we have nothing.”

* * *

  
Light enjoyed being able to sleep in.   
He’d arrived in Tokyo the night before and immediately collapsed into bed, not realising how tired he’d been until he’d felt a decent mattress beneath him. He hadn’t even managed to take a look at the blinking Tokyo lights from his window, at once menacing and inviting. Tokyo, on the surface, had a glossy sheen of perfection, but like any big city, there was a dark underworld threading its way through the well-groomed streets. Tokyo was just better at hiding it than most. 

  
He got up and stretched, padding over to the mirror that hung over the adjacent wall. He examined his black eye in the mirror; the early pink and red stages and now morphed into a hideous dark blue and purple. Before, it hadn’t been too obvious—but now it was impossible to miss, spreading from his eyebrow down to his cheek, mottled and dark—like a thick, black rain cloud.  
Light wasn’t vain, per se, but he liked to try and look presentable at the very least, and the bruise bothered him, especially the way it audaciously spread itself over the right of his face, obscuring his usual good looks. 

He sighed, approaching the coffee machine to make himself an espresso. He knocked back a double, then started rummaging through the mini bar for something to eat. He was hungry, and ended up wolfing down two packets of crisps and a sachet of honey-roasted peanuts. Then he gulped down a can of diet-coke, stretched, and examined his face again. Still bad. 

He hopped in the shower, turning the heat up as high as he could, allowing the burning water to scorch his skin until it was pink. He scrubbed and scrubbed, until his hands and legs were sore, then he washed his hair, twice, using an absurd amount of conditioner each time. Then he slathered his face with the generic lotion the hotel supplied and knocked back another double espresso, this time with a sachet of Sweet-n-low. 

A suitcase had been left at the corner of his bed, presumably with some clothes he could change into. Light unzipped it to examine the contents—pleased that the clothes were to his taste. Namikawa knew Light had expensive taste—and it was filled with exactly what he liked.  
There were three shirts from Tom Ford in different colours, as well as a new season striped button-up,, a cashmere Bottega Veneta jumper, a powder blue crew neck from Acne, two cropped, pleat front tailored trousers from Valentino, and some navy blue Prada trousers. Impressive. 

Light checked the label of the Prada trousers—nylon. God, when would Namikawa learn he hated Nylon? Not quite so impressive.   
He put on the Valentino bottoms with one of the Tom Ford shirts, with the Acne crew neck. It was nice to wear good quality clothes again—the scrubs they’d given him in prison had been so cheaply made that the fabric scratched his skin—the seams were weak, and had come loose after his fight in the canteen. 

He needed to find Takada. She’d been put in the room next to him—hopefully she’d have some concealer that he could slather over his bruise. He grabbed the room key and went to knock on Kiyomi’s door, knocking twice, then waiting. After a few moments, the door swung open, revealing a glowering Kiyomi.  
Her hair was wet, piled on the top of her head in a towel turban, a few damp strands clinging to her forehead. She wore one of the hotel towel robes, one of those ridiculous, skinny vogue cigarettes dangling from her lips. 

“What do you want?” She asked sourly, crossing her arms over her chest, as if he were staring at her breasts, which he most certainly wasn’t.

“Shouldn’t you be nicer to me? I just got a very important job done.” He said, only half-joking. Kiyomi rolled her eyes with admirable flair. “Can I come in?”

“If you must.” Kiyomi took the cigarette out of her mouth, tapping the ash into an empty coffee cup. Her room was already untidy, the curtains closed, lacy, flimsy bras strewn over the floor, the smell of stale tobacco thick in the air. “You never said what is you want.”  
“Do you have any concealer? You know…” He gestured at his eye. “For this.”

“Yes, it’s quite noticeable.” Kiyomi’s brown eyes scanned his face. “Concealer won’t do the trick, though. You’ll need to colour correct it.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Just sit down and don’t move. Oh, and don’t touch anything. I’ll be back in a second.” Light did as he was told, sitting on the end of the unmade bed, his hands in his lap. “Just make sure it’s not obvious.” He told her. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t. I’m actually pretty good at this.” Kiyomi said, disappearing into the bathroom and returning with a large, dusty pink makeup bag. She pulled out a palette of various creams, in a variety of pastel hues. She dipped a medium sized fluffy brush in the pale green colour and started painting on Light’s face. The hairs of the brush tickled. 

“Something tells me I don’t have green skin.” He murmured. 

“Be quiet, I can’t work properly when your cheek keeps moving.” She said, frowning, her eyes narrowing with focus. Her skin was still flushed from the shower. “I’ve been thinking about exactly what your problem is, you know.”

“Experts have tortured themselves with this question, so don’t feel bad if you haven’t figured it out.”

Kiyomi snorted. “See that book on the bed?”

“The one with the cream cover?”

“Yes. It’s about empathy.”

“…Right.”

Kiyomi flicked the brush, leaning back and squinting before returning to work. “You don’t empathise with people like a normal person. You don’t understand their pain.” She told him authoritatively. 

“I understand pain just fine, thank you very much.”

“You understand your own pain, sure. But you don’t understand anybody else’s. And you don’t care to.” Kiyomi spoke with a smug derision. 

“You’re one to talk.” Kiyomi put the palette down, rummaging through her bag and withdrawing a tube of something light and cream coloured. 

“I do what I have to do because I have to.” She said smoothly. “You do it because you enjoy it. That’s the difference—you’re just cruel. Like that man in Rome whose leg you broke, or that guy who tried to mug you. Or Like that kid you blinded. Those were all so

unnecessary, not to mention they garnered unnecessary attention.” She sat back. “You’re tanner than me, so the colour’s not quite right.”

“What was I supposed to do in New York? That was self-defence.”

“Sure, I’d agree if you’d just… punched him. But the whole castration thing was totally uncalled for.”

“Whatever.”

“See? You can’t even deny it. All you can ever say is that they had it coming.”  
Light scowled, saying nothing. “For your information,” he said after a moment. “I only blinded that guy from prison in one eye.”

“Oh my god, Light. Do you hear yourself? You’d do this even if you had the choice not to, wouldn’t you?”

Light didn’t respond, pondering the question for himself. Would he do it if he didn’t have the option? He wasn’t sure. It was a difficult question, since he didn’t really know anything else. There’d been a time in his life where he’d had goals, real goals. And there’d been a time where he’d had so much potential, hell, he’d been gifted. But that felt like millennia ago.

Really, killing was like anything else, that was the sad thing. It was mundane, just a task, a game, even, when you got used to it. And like any other game, Light played exceedingly well.

“If I had the choice, I think I’d do anything else.” Kiyomi said. She said it so quietly that Light could hardly hear her. 

“You seem to think you have a lot of authority over the state of my psyche.” 

“Do you know what psyche means? It means soul. Then psychopath…” Kiyomi sounded out each syllable. Psy-cho-path. “‘Path’ means broken, like pathology. So, it means ‘broken soul’.” Kiyomi paused. 

Light scoffed. Despite his outwards scorn, he wanted the conversation to end as quickly as possible.

When he was younger, he’d thought Namikawa could hear his thoughts. Perhaps it had been because Namikawa had such a knack for guessing what he was thinking, a knack that nobody else could replicate. It had always chilled Light, and although he’d grown out of that belief, the fear still lingered in him. Even now, Kiyomi’s words felt like blasphemy. He half expected Namikawa to appear out of nowhere and order them to do a hundred push-ups, like he did when they were younger, as punishment for stepping out of line. 

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Was all he managed. 

“Whatever. I’m finished now.”

Light got to his feet, examining himself in the mirror. He had to admit—Kiyomi had done a good job. Unless you looked really closely, you couldn’t even notice that there was makeup there at all. “Thank you.” He said. And he actually meant it. 

“Anytime.” Kiyomi replied, deadpan. She turned around. “I need to get dressed.” She said coolly. “So, you better leave.”

“I’ll see you later.” Light to his feet, leaving without a word. He returned to his room, grabbing a jacket and a hat and hoodie that he could use to make his identity more ambiguous, if it became necessary, and left the hotel. 

* * *

  
The day L had met Beyond, the ground was frozen solid, after having snowed the night before. Around the gates of Wammy’s house, the staff had scattered salt, meaning the snow had dissolved in the immediate area of the building. Further into the woods, however, the snow was still immaculate.   
It only ever snowed in England occasionally, generally in January or February, when the weather was at its most relentlessly cold. It rarely snowed nowadays—and L found himself missing it. It was probably global warming. 

L had been seventeen, Beyond fourteen. He’d arrived at Wammy’s house just weeks earlier, along with A. A had still been alive, back then—B’s only friend. They were both equally awkward, although B always had a greater brashness about him, one that was never present in A. All A had was a ghostly sort of fragility. 

B had been strange from the moment he arrived. That was saying a lot—since at Wammy’s House—eccentricity was the norm. He’d sat with his knees drawn to his chest, and often tilted his head in the air, as if examining something on the ceiling invisible to everybody else. He also had the habit of using his nails to pull out the hairs in his arm, or sometimes on his head, which had resulted in various bald patches in his brown hair, which he’d later dyed raven black. He’d also had huge eyes, even bigger than L’s, which were a ghostly pale grey, although he’d later started wearing red contacts to obscure his natural eye colour. L had always thought this made him look like an awkward teenager who spent too much time in Hot Topic, although he never commented on this fact.   
By that time, L was two years into his work as a detective, and was doing exceedingly well. Although he’d been raised by the millionaire Quillish Wammy, he’d done work by this point to have earned his own millions. 

He’d been staying at Wammy’s for a week, taking a break from his detective work. Of course, L hadn’t wanted to take a break from his work; the lack of activity made him restless. So, he’d taken to walking around the grounds surrounding the orphanage, doing endless laps of the ice-encrusted woods.  
He’d encountered Beyond for the first time in those woods, in a deeper where the shrubbery was dense and badgers and rabbits roamed, although it was still close enough that you could hear children squealing in the distance.   
Beyond had been standing under a tree, hunched over something that L couldn’t see. At first, he had no idea who Beyond was, and it took a moment for him to remember that Beyond was one of the new arrivals. L didn’t normally pay much attention to new arrivals, although he remembered Wammy remarking that B was a particularly unusual case. L had pressed him for more information, but Wammy had remained silent on the matter. All that L could deduce was that Wammy had a mixture of sympathy and disgust for this strange new child. 

Beyond and A had been older than most children were when he arrived—maybe that was why they’d ended up the way they did. Most of the children at Wammy’s house, including L, had arrived when they were very small, obviously carrying whatever trauma had haunted their younger years. But they were still young enough, normally about six or seven, that they had plenty of growing still to do—their mind could still be moulded, more or less, into something that was basically okay. But A and B had arrived at the ages of twelve and fourteen, respectively. Perhaps Wammy should have known that there was too much damage already done—that the two boys had already accumulated enough trauma to shape their entire personality, to wire their brain in a way that was utterly permanent. There was only so much you could help someone, Wammy had always said. He’d said the same thing to L at B’s funeral.

“Are you B?” L had called out. Even at the time, he wasn’t sure what possessed him to strike up conversation.

B had looked up, turning around. It was then that L saw what he had in his arms; it was a kitten, one that couldn’t have been older than six weeks, white, with black blothces. It squirmed in B’s arms, struggling to get free. 

“Where did you find that?” L asked. 

B shrugged. “I think one of the strays gave birth—it was just walking around here. I’ve seen a few, but this is the only one I was able to get close to.” B squinted, some of his hair obscuring his eyes. “Are you… ?” He started, as L took a step closer. He approached B in the way he’d approach an abandoned, feral kitten—with extreme care, expecting him to bolt from fear at any moment.

“You’re L, aren’t you?”

“Yes. You’re Beyond Birthday.” L said. B continued to stare blankly at him, which L took as an affirmative. “Maybe you should take him back to the orphanage. I bet some of the others would like to play with him.”

“It’s a girl.”

“Sorry, she. Does she have a name?”

“No.” 

L was starting to wonder why he was bothering to speak to this strange young man in the first place. “Take him to Wammy and ask to get him spayed and neutered. We can’t have more stray cats wondering around the place.” He said, impatient. 

“Her.”

“Sorry, her.” L gave him a final one over, irritated. He continued to walk ahead, ignoring Beyond, who stayed staring at him for quite some time.

“You’re right, though.” Beyond said. L stopped. “There’s too many of them around. It’s cruel to let them breed, really.”

“I suppose so.” L said, watching the cat squirm in Beyond’s arms.It seemed desperate to get free, although every time it nearly succeeded in doing so, Beyond pulled it back. “I have to be somewhere.” L lied. Really, he wanted to end this strange and uncomfortable encounter as quickly as possible. “Goodbye, Beyond Birthday.”

Beyond hadn’t said anything; he’d just continued to stare at L with those huge, moon eyes. 

L never saw Beyond with that cat again, and at the time, he’d thought nothing of it. He assumed the kitten escaped somewhere in the woods, never to be seen again. This fact didn’t bother him; the kitten was feral, after all—it had probably just returned to be with its mother, he’d assumed. It wasn’t until after Beyond had gone up in a tower of flames that L realised what had really happened—that Beyond had gone to drown that poor kitten in the lake just a few hundred metres away from where they had stood. In some warped way, perhaps that was what Beyond thought it was kindest to do—to put that creature out of its misery. It was the same logic Beyond had applied to himself, years later. That it was better to simply cease a miserable existence than to simply allow it to continue. 

Beyond Birthday didn’t look much like the man from the cemetery at all; the man from the cemetery looked healthy and fit, attractive, even. Beyond had always had a haggard, tired sort of look, even when he was in the best of health, whereas the man from the cemetery was beautiful, objectively speaking—with a narrow, angular face and high cheekbones. His skin golden, his eyes hazel and his hair silky and straight. He had the kind of face that would be charming to almost anyone, regardless of the accompanying personality. But he and Beyond had one similarity that L couldn’t quite place—a strange kind of look behind the eyes—something almost… animal. Something feral. Like that kitten Beyond had taken to drown in the lake. 

“I have an idea.” L told Mello and Matt, later that day. “We can’t just stay here, waiting for the clues to fall into place.”

“What do you mean?”

L sighed, sitting down. He had a lot to tell them. “Listen.” He started. “I don’t want to explain this twice.”

* * *

Not long after leaving his hotel, Light found himself Chuao line towards Takao.  
It hadn’t been a conscious decision, it was more like muscle memory, or perhaps a younger version of himself taking over his body, overcome by the desire to go home. Light often felt that, when he did feel stress—the childish desire to go home—even though that was impossible.  
At 3pm, the line wasn’t too busy. The carriage was filled with syrupy sun, a few students clustered on one side, an elderly couple on the other. Light sat on his own, staring out the window, feeling the orange afternoon sun spread over his face. The rational part of him told him that he ought to turn back, to get back to the hotel before he got himself into an uncomfortable situation. But he didn’t move—he just stared blankly at the suburbs speeding past, getting up at the final stop, when the carriage was nearly deserted. He moved without effort, without resistance, like a ghost. 

He reached into his pocket, withdrawing the beanie he’d pocketed earlier, and swapped his jumper for a hoodie. He’d changed plenty in the past eight years, but there was still the risk that someone might recognise him. When he was small, his mother’s friends would fuss over him, particularly his unusual features—his eyes, shades lighter than anyone else’s in his family—and his hair, naturally a light brown, tinged auburn in the right light. 

“Those eyes, Tsuki-chan!” One of his mother’s friends, Hina, had said, when he was small. She’d proceeded to pinch his cheeks. “I’ve never seen such pretty eyes!”

Perhaps someone would recognise his features, distinctive as they were. Light would have to keep his head down and disguise his hair in a hat the best he could. Maybe he should have worn a wig.

It was strange to see how little had changed. A few shops had disappeared and been replaced, and a couple of high-rises had been erected on the horizon, but other than that, everything was pretty much the same; groups of housewives clustered on the pavements, chatting rapidly amongst themselves, schoolgirls making their way home, young mothers with a toddler on their hip. Light searched their faces, with the masochistic hope of recognising one of them, but the hope was fruitless. He recognised nobody, and nobody recognised him.

He walked aimlessly, passing the school he’d attended as a small child, then the school he’d attended as a pre-teen. The lack of change depressed him. He’d kind of hoped to see that hundreds of new buildings had sprung up, and that the places that littered the faded memories of his childhood had long been torn down, making the place he’d once called home utterly unrecognisable, like it had ever been his home at all. 

He passed the place where his mother used to do all her shopping, where she’d taken him and Sayu when they were still too young to be left in the house alone. Sayu would dance around Sachiko’s feet, giggling and running around the isles, picking up sweets and cakes, trying to surreptitiously drop into the basket. Light would always remain by his mother’s side, because that’s what he’d always been like. A good kid, a kid with so much going for him. 

His memories of his old life possessed a strange quality, not dissimilar to the look of old photographs; they seemed to inhabit a picture perfect, parallel universe, in which the light was always bright, everything slightly fuzzed.  
Light walked into a corner shop to buy himself a drink and some gum. The shop was vaguely familiar; he had muddled recollections of being sent here by his parents to buy tea, rice, or bread. The shelves were neatly stacked with brightly coloured packets of ramen, sweets, chocolate, magazines and tea. A Western pop song played on tinny speakers, drifting throughout the shop, through the door and out into the street. 

Light picked up two packets of spearmint gum, a bottle of water, and on impulse, a packet of twenty Seven Stars cigarettes, along with a lighter. He thanked the shopkeeper with a quick bow and turned to leave, deciding that he ought to leave this area as quickly as possible. As he did so, a group of teenagers entered the shop, giggling among themselves. One voice cut through, high and clear, telling some joke about a classmate.  
Light’s heart froze. He ducked into an aisle lined with cereal, turning his back, pretending to examine on of the tins of peas. 

He snuck at look at the girls while they weren’t looking, and sure enough, exactly what he dreaded was confirmed to be true.

Sayu wasn’t a little girl anymore—the last time Light had seen her, she’d been just eight—but her face was unmistakable. She was dressed in her high school uniform, her hair, that had once been cut in a childish but endearing bob, had grown long, now down to past her back.

“I’m just getting a can of soda.” One of Sayu’s friends announced. “And maybe a candy bar.” She added, after a pause.

“If you’re getting one, can you at least get one for me?” Light edged towards the door, hoping to draw as little attention to himself as possible.

“I’m always buying you stuff, Sayu-chan!” The friend complained. “You already owe me so much.”

“My mother’s giving me my allowance on Monday.” Sayu insisted. “I can pay you back then.” Clearly her personality had changed too much, however.

“Fine, but I’ll hold you to it. Oh, shit. I was supposed to pick up some ramen for my sister, one sec.” Sayu’s friend turned to walk down the aisle where Light was standing, oblivious. Light should have walked out and left while he could—but his body was frozen stiff. 

“Excuse me.” Sayu’s friend said. It took a moment for Light to realise she was talking to him. He stepped away from her, giving her a brisk one-over. She was short, with a pixie cut and a round, freckled face. “Can you get that ramen off the top shelf for me, please? I can’t reach it.”

Light paused. “This one?” He said, lowering his voice until it was barely audible.  
“Yes, please.”

He picked it up and passed it to her, avoiding her gaze. In his peripheral vision, he saw Sayu’s blurred form at the other end of the aisle. 

“Come on, Keiko-chan.” Sayu groaned, leaning against the wall.

“I’m coming!” She called to Sayu. “Thank you.” She gave Light a bobbing bow.

As soon as they’d gone to the counter to pay, Light hurried out of the shop, not looking back once, finally allowing himself to breathe. He walked quickly, not knowing where he was going, only knowing that he needed to get out of here. He must have walked for half an hour, with no real sense of direction, without stopping once.   
Once he no longer recognised his surroundings, Light felt he could relax. He sat on a bench, a shaking hand reaching into his pocket and pulling out the carton of cigarettes. He lit one, taking a long, stammering breath, trying to flush the image of his baby sister out of his head.

Light returned to his hotel room just under an hour later. When he opened door, he saw Namikawa was reclining in the chair by the window, his eyes flitting between the view of the skyline and the magazine in his lap. A paper bag was sat at his feet. 

“Where have you been?” Namikawa asked, without looking up.

“Just for a walk.”

Namikawa nodded. “You smell like cigarettes.”

“Why do you care? Takada smokes.”

“It’s bad for your cardio.”

“I rarely smoke, anyway. I’m not addicted or anything.”

“Well, don’t make a habit of it.” Namikawa told him shortly. It was ironic, for him to chide Light for smoking; most of Light’s early memories of Namikawa consisted of him leaning back in a chair, regarding him with that signature look—amused but derisive, through a thick veil of cigarette smoke.

Namikawa reached to his feet, picking the paper bag off the floor and placing it on the table. “That’s for you.” He said. 

Light opened the bag, picking out one of the stacks of 10,000 yen notes. He flitted through them, studying the portrait of Yukichi Fukuzawa, then returned the stack into the bag. He couldn’t be bothered to count it. 

“Don’t get too comfortable.” Namikawa continued, as Light sat down opposite him and undid his jacket. “I have another job for you, for two weeks from now.”

“And there I was thinking I could relax.” Light said, tilting his head back.

“You can, in a way. I don’t want you to do this alone. Takada and Mikami will be going with you.”

“Why?” Light asked, sitting up, unable to hide his annoyance. He’d never been much of a team player—he always figured he could get things done more efficiently on his own, without the interference of other players. Did Namikawa really think he needed babysitting? It was practically insulting.

“This is an important job, and it won’t be easy. It needs to be done meticulously.”

Namikawa explained, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pile of papers. He pushed one over towards Light—it was a sketch, not a photo, hastily done, but impressively realistic. Light frowned. The face was gaunt, with dark hair and deep-set, dark eyes. 

“What is it?” Namikawa asked, noticing his expression.

“I’ve seen him before.”

“Are you sure? Where?”

“At the prison. He came to visit Higuchi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all your comments and kudos, each one makes me smile <3


	6. cat among pigeons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like a bird on the wire,  
> like a drunk in a midnight choir  
> I have tried in my way to be free.  
> Like a worm on a hook,  
> like a knight from some old fashioned book  
> I have saved all my ribbons for thee.  
> If I, if I have been unkind,  
> I hope that you can just let it go by.  
> If I, if I have been untrue  
> I hope you know it was never to you.
> 
> (Leonard Cohen, Bird on the Wire)

  
when you wake you see silver white on the ceiling, the colour of the shaded moon. blinding silver white. it smells like nothing, and that’s the best part; you’ve become so used to the stench of sweat and smoke, and that sharp, acrid smell that you’d never been able to place. almost like vinegar. and now you smell nothing.   
the sheets are soft under you, freshly cleaned. pure white; slightly jarring against gold skin, littered with bruises and scratches.  
the last face you saw was that man with the long hair, in his late twenties or early thirties.  
the light bends from the window at a right angle, painting a white, no, grey, stripe across the expanse of ceiling. he can only be sure of one thing, and it’s the fact that his head hurts like hell. and he thinks back to his last memory of before, the dreaded before, of walking home from school, bag slung over his shoulder, and the next thing he knew was black black black.  
what else?

pain shooting up his hamstring, the scratch of cheap fabric against soapy sweet clean skin. a hand, mottled like old leather. that smell, that horrible fucking smell.   
they told you to keep quiet, that they’d killed people and they’d do it again. then they laughed like they’d just told you a joke. they said the word murder like a prayer and buried your head harder into the back seat of the car. that’s what it was, the back seat of a car. you’d learn that later.  
and now there is nothing, nothing but the feeling of pillows under his head, and god, he can’t smell anything. outside is an overcast sky, evergreen trees trembling in the light breeze. it is quiet, for the first time in months.  
for a second, he pauses, and tries to remember his name, but it doesn’t come, it never comes. he tries to wrap his mouth around the syllables, but they won’t come out—drifting away like the remnants of a bad dream.

but what even was a name anyway? a collection of arbitrary syllables? no, no. it was all you had, the only thing you had, the first thing you were ever gifted, then the thing that marked you apart from the other dead billions. it was the collection of letters carved into a headstone obscured by moss, forgotten in time, once the rest of you has turned into dust. then maybe some bored voyeur will crouch down and sweep the weeds aside, mispronounce you name, and study the two dates carved under. they’ll wonder what happened in those few decades, what you might have been like. then they’ll get to their feet, and they’ll forget.   
but most great names weren’t acquired at birth. they were earned.  
your teachers always said you had such a beautiful imagination. were you imagining this?  
you were like light, the man with the long hair said. like light in a dark room.

* * *

Compared to that sad off-shoot suburb, the centre of London was glorious—all glistening high rises and grand, Victorian architecture. Despite the cold weather, the river Thames was shimmering; a sludge-coloured snake, threading its way through various needle-like skyscrapers and squat museums—attractive despite their mismatch. 

Kiyomi and Light walked in silence. Kiyomi was on her phone while Light examined the windows of passing shops—they’d surpassed most of the touristic places already and had now located some of the more expensive boutiques of Shoreditch. 

Light paused, gesturing to a window. “You should dress like that.” He pointed at the mannequin in the window, who wore an enormous, ornate green hat, along with a garish, periwinkle, fifties style party dress. “I think it would suit you.”

Kiyomi scowled at him. 

“What? I’m being nice.”

“You’re never nice. Not sincerely, anyway.”

“I’m incredibly sincere.”

Kiyomi rolled her eyes, returning to her phone. “We need to meet Mikami. He said he’s in the Starbucks by Old Street Tube station.”

“I just want to do some window-shopping.”

“Window shop later.”

“But we’re leaving at 6am!”

Kiyomi shrugged. “Not my problem. Anyway, you need to walk faster.” 

Light sighed, feeling an inkling of self-pity for how heavily he resented the situation. He didn’t resent where he was, or what his task was; however, he did resent that he wasn’t allowed do it alone. While Kiyomi was a skilled assassin, her style certainly didn’t gel with Light’s; for one thing, Kiyomi could be vague with her plans, and generally had a ‘go-with-the-flow’ approach. This, on principle, was fine if it worked for her, but Light preferred to go in with a more concrete plan.   
Mikami, on the other hand, had the opposite problem; his planning was so meticulous and rigid as to not allow for individual circumstance. Working with one of them on a job would be tedious enough. Working with both of them would be a nightmare. As they continued, Light became fascinated with how Kiyomi managed to somehow simultaneously scroll Instagram and walk without bumping into anybody, her acrylic French-tips tapping the screen rhythmically.

Upon arriving at Starbucks, Light went immediately to the counter to order himself a coffee. Black, one sugar. When he returned, Mikami and Takada looked up at him at the same time, like they’d been talking about him. The lack of professionalism was infuriating. Mikami looked awkward in his surroundings, with his poorly tailored blazer and suit trousers that didn’t match. 

Mikami spoke first. “My hotel room is just around the corner.” He said. “We can talk there.”

Unsurprisingly, Teru’s hotel room was immaculate. The bed was made, one suitcase propped in the opposite corner. On the desk was a notebook and a few papers, sorted into neat piles. Light knew that Mikami was planning on giving them all a debriefing, which Light would have to pretend to listen to.   
The problem with Mikami was that he thought you could plan for everything. Obviously, Light liked to plan ahead, of course he did; but Mikami lacked the intuition and spontaneous initiative to make him truly great at what he did.

“I’ve had somebody follow him.” Mikami informed them. “He’s at Batty Langley’s in Montcalm Royal London House, in the City of London. And what’s better, we have a tip.”

Light leaned back in his chair, wishing he was somewhere else. “A tip?”

“Yes, someone tipped in and gave me the exact room number.”

Light wished he stop saying ‘tip’. “How are we going to get in?”

“I’ve already dealt with that part.” Mikami said, sitting up, and looking pleased with himself. Normally Light could tolerate being around him; he liked that Mikami admired him, and that alone made his company gratifying enough, although it could verge on annoying. Despite being four years older than Light, and thus having a career over twice as long as his, Mikami didn’t have anything close to Light’s efficiency and talent—or his flair. 

“What have you done?” Light asked. 

“I bribed the staff and found out his room number. I also tried out picking the locks… and fortunately, it’s not hard at all.”

It seemed off to Light, how easy this seemed. Why an earth had Namikawa sent all three of them for a job that would only involve picking a lock? If anything, that hotel room would just get crowded, and Light got the feeling he’d get a nasty bout of claustrophobia. 

“I just… don’t get it.” He said. “It just seems too easy.”

“Don’t complain.” Kiyomi replied, still on her phone and radiating an aura of indifference and scorn. At this point, Light wondered if she was on that phone specifically to piss him off. He definitely wouldn’t put it past her. 

“I’m just stating facts.” He murmured. Light wanted to tell them that frankly, he could do this on his own, and their presence would just be a burden. He didn’t care—they could keep their share of the money. He’d much rather do this on his own. Namikawa had called him a control freak before, perhaps fairly. 

He was about to suggest that the other two just go home, when one of Mikami’s burner phones rang from inside his jacket pocket. He picked it up immediately, pressing it to his ear, a solemn look on his face. Light could hear the chirp of a voice on the other line. Mikami responded with a vague affirmative, snapping the phone closed. 

“That was Namikawa.” He said. “He wants you to get to the City of London now, Light.”

“Now?” He at least wanted another coffee first. 

“He wants you to stake out the hotel.”

“But I don’t have a car.” Light said. Hearing his aloud, he sounded whiny. Why couldn’t someone else do the stakeout? Was he being whiny?

“Namikawa said he rented you one.” Mikami said, shrugging slightly. “Oh, and he said to give him a call when you leave.”

“Fine. I’ll go now.” Light said, getting reluctantly to his feet. Stakeouts were the worst, most boring job there was to do. “Don’t have fun without me.”

“Why are you angry with me?” Light told Namikawa as soon as he picked up the phone. He was stalking his way through a nearby high street, sipping a cold-brew and narrowly dodging passing commuters. 

“What an earth are you talking about?” Namikawa snapped. He sounded tired.

“You know what I’m talking about?”

“No, I really don’t.”

“First you sent Takada out to the prison. Now you’re making me do this job with Mikami and Takada. What have I done wrong? Do I need babysitting or something?” Light stopped. A small woman, who looked lost, probably a tourist, nearly walked into him. She muttered various apologies in shaky English.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Light. And frankly, you’re acting like a child.”

“I’m asking a legitimate question.” Light sipped his coffee. “Frankly, I think your lack of transparency is unprofessional.”

“You’re really starting to annoy me. Have you got the car yet?”

“No.”

“You need to get to the hotel car park. They’ll be someone there waiting for you.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Listen,” Namikawa said impatiently. He must have been outside, since Light could hear the rustle of wind through the receiver. “Lawliet isn’t an easy target. You might think he is, but we aren’t the first to want him dead. Things are more complicated that you realise.”

“What about him is so different? I’ve dealt with important people before.”

“You and I both know that’s a question above your station.” Namikawa returned icily. Light could feel his blood boil as he walked into the vast carpark, scanning the rows and rows of parked cars—packed together like sardines. The air smelled like gasoline and rotting food. 

“What number plate does this guy have?” He asked, throwing the remainder of his coffee, which was mostly ice by that point, into the trash.

“I’ll text it to you.” There was a pause from the other line. “I trust you won’t do anything stupid.”

“When have I done anything stupid? Am I stupid?”

“No, you’re not. But that doesn’t mean you’re immune to stupidity.” He said, then hung up, leaving Light cursing into the silent receiver. He checked his messages and started through rows and rows of cars covered in bird shit. It didn’t take long to find the car in question, cheap, dated and unassuming, an English man with a beard and sunglasses in the front seat. He unrolled the driver’s window, and Light leaned over the side like a disinterested prostitute. 

“Namikawa?” The man asked. Light could feel his stare through his mirrored sunglasses.

“Yes.”

There was a moment of silence, while to two of them watched each other. 

“Well,” Light said. “Aren’t you going to give me the keys?”

“Aren’t you going to pay me?”

“I thought Namikawa paid you.”

“Well, it’s expected, isn’t it? It’s polite.”

“I don’t think it is expected.” Light said. Still, the man continued to stare at him. “Alright, alright. Fine.” He dug out his wallet, throwing a few twenties into the man’s lap. He picked them up, ruffling through them lazily.

“This is very generous.” He said. 

“Oh, is it?” British money felt very abstract to him. Like video game currency. “Can I have my car now?”

The man fished the keys out of his pocket, pressing them into Light’s palm and getting out the driver’s seat. He then disappeared into the labyrinth of the car park, thanking Light briskly for his ‘contribution’. 

Light got into the front seat and ran his hand over the steering wheel. It had been a while since he last drove, but he figured he more or less knew what he was doing, although he’d never been too good at driving an automatic. He squeezed the clutch and slipped the car into reverse, backing his way out of the driving space. He wondered whether they drove on left or right, in the UK; for the life of him he couldn’t remember. 

It was five when he parked in a space watching over Lawliet’s hotel, still light outside. When it got to ten, he started to wonder if Lawliet would ever appear. By this point, it was already dark. He’d bought a six pack of diet coke from the corner store before he got here, and now he was on the last one.   
This really did feel like punishment. 

It was half ten by the time a shadowy figure appeared at the entrance, slouched over and spindly, his hair rustled slightly by the breeze. Light had to pinch himself, peering closer to make sure it was he thought it was.   
He got out of the car hurriedly, nearly forgetting to lock it. He pulled his hoodie over his head, and a beanie over the strands of hair falling in his face. He jogged across the road, trailing after a group of drunk tourists, hoping for them to momentarily obscure him. London was crawling with life on a Saturday night—filled with young people in tight clothes stumbling their way to various fashionable bars. But there he was, Lawliet—a cat among pigeons.

Sure enough, the man walking inside was Lawliet. Not only did he match the sketches Namikawa had supplied them with, but he was the same man that Light had encountered in that Winchester cemetery. Light couldn’t see his face, but he could imagine it. It wasn’t a particularly attractive face—but it was certainly distinctive. It had managed to linger in Light’s mind since he first encountered him in that graveyard. 

Lawliet approached the hotel, seemingly oblivious, nodding at the woman sitting at the front desk. In one hand was an ice-cream cone, in the other, the end of a cigarette. He flicked the cigarette into the gutter and disappeared inside, hands dug deep into his pockets.   
Light hung back, ducking around the corner and into a side alley. His hands hovered over his phone, before he opened it, punching in Mikami’s number, who picked up after three rings. 

“Hello?”

“It’s me.” Light said steadily. “We have a problem.”

There was a taut pause on the other line. “What do you mean?”

“Lawliet’s changed hotel. He must know someone’s onto him.” 

“Shit. Do you know where he is?”

“He’s at the Travel Lodge around the block. I followed him.”

“That’s lucky. Shit, Light. This isn’t good. How are we going to find him?”

“You think I know?” Light snapped, trying to feign some kind of investment. “At least we know what building he’s in.”

“You’re right. Sorry.” Light could tell how stressed Mikami was—given how much he relied on everything always going to plan. He could picture him now; pacing up and down the hotel room like he always did when agitated. 

“You and Takada need to find out what room he’s in. If the staff are uncooperative, you can’t be put off. Hell, they might even deny that he’s there. He’s probably put down a fake name, I don’t fucking know. Just make sure you find out what room he’s in, alright? Call me when you’ve figured it out. In the meantime, I’ll try and figure out the layout of that Travel Lodge.” 

“Okay.” Mikami said, sounding relieved. Light could hear him murmur something to someone else, presumably Takada. “Thank you for tailing him.”

“That’s my job.”

“Still, thanks. I don’t know what we would have done if you didn’t follow him.”

“Like I said, don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to you later.”

As he hung up, Light almost felt bad. Almost. 

He shoved his phone back in his pocket, returned to the car and changed into the smart jeans and shirt he’d packed. He removed his beanie and hoodie, shrugging on one of his more expensive jackets, then locked the car, sauntering over the road with as much confidence at he could muster. The night was still mild, for England, at least. He nodded at the doorman as he entered, surveying the hotel’s insides. 

The lobby was pleasant; a crystal chandelier hung over his head, turning the yellowy light into a mosaic of colour. The floors were covered by off-white carpeting, various modern paintings adorning the tiled walls.

Light smiled at the receptionist as he made his way to the lift, trying to look as much like he belonged as possible. He got in, punched a random number, nodding at the old woman who entered just after him. When he got to the third floor, he got out decisively, then wandered through various corridors as if he knew where he was going. After ten or so minutes, he returned to the lift, and went straight back down to the lobby. 

Only one woman was at the reception—the woman Light had nodded at earlier. She was thin and mousy looking, with a small face and big, pale eyes. Light beamed at her as he approached the counter. 

“Hi,” he started. “Sorry to approach you at this time. I bet you’re tired. You’re probably nearly done for the night, right?”

The girl laughed nervously. “Only just started, actually.”

“Ah, that’s unfortunate.” He peered at her name tag. “Well, I’m sorry to bother you, Daisy. But I seem to have misplaced my key…”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that. What room number are you?” The receptionist replied. Her watery eyes flitted between his face and the white light of the computer monitor. 

“504.”

“Oh, yes. Could I get a name, please?”

“Rue Ryuuzaki.”

There was a pause as Daisy typed something into the computer. For a moment, Light was worried, but before that sentiment could take a hold of him, Daisy was speaking again. “Right, Mr. Ryuuzaki. I can see your name here.” She said after some hesitation, looking slightly embarrassed. “Could I see some ID?”

“ID?” 

“Yes, I’m afraid it’s our security policy.”

“Ah, how stupid of me.” Light blinked, staring at his feet, scratching the back of his neck in a manner he hoped was endearing. “I left my passport in my room.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry about that, Mr. Ryuuzaki. But it’s in our security policy. It was in the paperwork you signed when you got here.”

“Ah… was it?” Light tapped his temple for dramatic effect. “Then that really is my mistake. I probably misread it—or misinterpreted it. My English isn’t so good, you see…”

“Oh, no! It seems perfect to me, Mr. Ryuuzaki.”

“Ah, oh well. What can I do?” Light sighed, checking his watch. “Well, if I leave now, I might be still be able to get a room at the Travel Lodge around the corner…”

“Oh, no.” Her eyes widened. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you another card now.”

“You will? You don’t have to. I understand completely why it’s in your security policy.”

“No, no! I insist.” Daisy punched something into the keyboard, ducking briefly under the desk. She slid a new, shiny blue card across the counter. “See? I’ve already got you another one.” 

“Oh! Thank you so much.” Light gave her his widest smile. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

The receptionist smiled back; her pale cheeks tinged pink. “It’s no problem, Mr. Ryuuzaki. Have a good night.”

He bowed at her, piling in a final touch of exotic charm, then turned around, slipping the card into his pocket. Once he was alone in the lift, he allowed himself to be swallowed by relief, and a little pride. 

Lock picking was for amateurs. 

Lawliet’s room was at the end of the hall, tucked away behind a turning—easily missed. Light took a moment to study it, his heart accelerating, a staccato drum beat hammering at his chest. As quietly as he could, he pushed the card through the slit. To his relief, it immediately flashed green.  
He opened the door slowly. Inside it was still dark, although the lights were on in the bathroom. 

Light could see some of the room outlined by the brittle moonlight streaming in from the window. All he could see was the fuzzy outline of the bed, a desk, and a cupboard. He crept over to cupboard and checked inside—nothing. He pressed himself against the wall by the window, making sure he couldn’t be seen, then waited, breath hitched, watching the yellow halo around the bathroom door. He pulled out the box-cutter from his pocket, pressing it tightly into his palm, as to nearly, but not quite, draw blood.

It felt like forever before the bathroom door opened timidly, revealing a thin, hunched figure standing in the doorway. At first, the figure seemed unphased, but after a moment it froze in its tracks. 

“Who there?” Lawliet said. His voice was characteristically monotone, but unless Light was mistaken, there was a note of fear underpinning it. He stepped out of the shadows, and towards the figure. 

He couldn’t tell what Lawliet’s expression was, whether or not it was scared. 

“It’s you.” Lawliet said. 

Light cocked his head. “I guess it is.”

Lawliet exhaled sharply—it could have been a laugh. “Well,” he said, his voice even. “I suppose I should have seen this coming.” His head was tilted downwards.

“So… you know why I’m here?” Light said, shifting so that light fell onto half of his face.

“Of course.” Lawliet crossed his arms. Part of his face came into view—he had high cheekbones and a long, straight nose. His features were almost aristocratic. He took another step forward. “Who do you think called in the tip?”

Before Light could process what he was hearing, he felt a hand grab at his ankle and yank him forwards. He collapsed to the floor, knocking the air out of his lungs. Before he could move, something hard and cold collided with his temple. His head was filled with pain—sharp, throbbing, each beat of his heart rattling his skull.  
Should have checked under the bed. He thought to himself dully, fading out of consciousness little by little.

* * *

“What should we do with him?” Matt’s hair was crinkled from spending so much time lying under L’s bed. They’d been like that for the past hour, waiting impatiently for a sign of Light.

“Don’t worry.” Mello said, his eyes finally moving from the unconscious man splayed out on the floor. “I have handcuffs in my suitcase.” 

“Alright. Well, I wish I’d never learned that information.”

Mello ignored them, returning with a pair of surprisingly sturdy looking handcuffs in his hand. He handcuffed the man to the radiator by both arms, so his arms were behind his back. 

Matt tilted the man’s head to the side, examining the swelling bruise on his temple. “It’s definitely him, right? And what happened to his face?”  
It was a valid question. The man had a dark bruise covering his eye and part of his cheekbone. “Probably just a prison souvenir. Are you sure those cuffs are sturdy enough?”

“Sure, they are. I got them off a police officer—they’re professional grade.”

“What do we do now?” Matt stretched his arms. “I mean… I don’t know about you, but I didn’t actually expect to get this far.”

“We wait until he wakes up. Then we figure it out.”

Fortunately, that turned out to be less time than any of them expected. The man jolted awake from restless unconsciousness after around half an hour; his hazel eyes opened slowly, cautiously. He inhaled sharply, like he’d just been submerged underwater. It took him a moment to realise he was restrained, his eyes unfocused at first, eventually fixating on L.

“What the fuck.” He hissed, far less cordial than when L had encountered in the cemetery. He groaned theatrically. “Where the hell am I?”

“You’re in London.” L said unhelpfully. 

“Who the hell are you?” He said, staring at Matt and Mello, who were both watching him from where they were seated on the bed. Both their eyes were wide—like a pair of preening owls. 

“They’re my colleagues. Matt and Mello, respectively.” The man was silent for a moment, slumping against the radiator. “I can understand why you might be irritated by their presence. You weren’t expecting them, were you?” L dug into his pocket, withdrew a sherbet lemon, and popped it in his mouth.

More silence. 

“Well, I’m sorry about knocking you out.” L lied. “You can understand why I took the precautions. Putting a hit out on oneself is risky business.”  
“How did you know I’d come alone?”

“I didn’t, quite frankly.” L said. “I just assumed you would, based on how I’d profiled you.” The man stared ruefully at the floor. “Profiling can be risky, though, since it’s all based on assumptions and deductions. Of course, in this case, it happened to be successful. We’ve told you our names. Aren’t you going to tell us yours? It’s only polite.”

The man snorted. 

“I don’t care if you give me an alias. Obviously, we’ve given you aliases. But at the moment you’re just ‘man handcuffed to our radiator’, which doesn’t really flow off the tongue.” 

The man sighed in a jaded sort of way. “I’m Light.”

“Light? What an interesting name.”

“I know. I’ve been told.”

“Do you have a surname, Light?”

Light snorted derisively. “As if.”

“Fair enough, I wouldn’t give me my surname either—I’m far too disreputable. Can you give me a clue? You know, since I’ve come this far.”

“I don’t have a surname. So, I couldn’t give you one even I wanted to. It’s just Light.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” L said. Mello and Matt were both leaning against the opposite wall, looking distastefully down at their captee. “We all have surnames, just Light, apart from some exceptions in Iceland. And sorry to assume, but I take it you have no Icelandic roots.”

“No, I don’t, as far as I know. But I don’t have a surname, either, so really, you’re wasting time trying to work it out.”

Interesting. L bit down on the sherbet, and his mouth was flooded with bittersweet, liquid sugar. “Well. We’ve met before, haven’t we?” He continued. “At the cemetery in Winchester, that was you, wasn’t it? And then the prison. An interesting coincidence, no?”

“I suppose that’s one word for it.” 

“Well, you don’t seem stupid, Light. Surely, you can I understand that I have some questions.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Are you actually going to tell me?”

Light shifted, trying to get more comfortable. “Obviously not.”

“Well, I’ll ask anyway. Who do you work for?”

The words hung in the air for a moment. Light gave him a practised look of derisive indifference, then shrugged. “There’s better people to ask, to be honest with you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mello interjected. Throughout the entire conversation, he’d looked like he was about to burst with frustration.

“What it means is that if you want information, I’m really not your guy. It’s not really my department.” 

“He’s bluffing, L.”

“Not unlikely.” L said. “It won’t be that difficult to figure out your identity.” He could bluff too. “We’ve been working on it for months… and frankly, we’re really not that far away.”

“Well, that’s wonderful for you, just L.”

L crossed his arms, holding Light’s gaze. It was playful, annoyingly so. He was obviously convinced he could somehow talk his way out of these handcuffs, however, one of L’s most useful traits in his work as a detective was his immunity to charm. 

“Matt.” L said, his voice light. “Why don’t you go into the other room and get on your laptop? Continue the work you were doing before.”

“Are you sure?” Matt asked, looking hesitant. “Are you sure you don’t need help with…” His sentence trailed off. 

“I think we can manage on our own.”

“Well, alright.” Matt pushed himself from the wall, looking down his nose at Light apprehensively. Light watched him walk out the door, looking as if he was resisting the urge to smile. 

“What are you so smug about?” Mello snapped. 

“I’m not smug.”

“Jesus Christ, L. He’s insufferable.” Mello exclaimed, burying his face in his hands. This seemed to please Light further. L wasn’t stupid—the kid was obviously scared but trying to pretend otherwise. It wouldn’t fool L. 

“Is this how you’re planning on getting information out of me?” Light looked up at them, his eyes slightly narrowed, as if dazzled by the light. “It seems very tame.”

“What, do you want me to torture you?” L asked, disinterested. He picked up the sweet wrapper, tearing it absent-mindedly into small pieces. 

“I’m just saying, whatever you’re doing, it’s not particularly effective.”

“I try to avoid torture, on the whole.”

“’Try’?”

“I don’t try and make a habit of it.” L sat down on the bed, pulling his legs towards his chest until he was comfortable. “I really hope it doesn’t come to that, Light.”

Although he was on the other side of the room, Mello’s frustration was palpable. It almost made the air thick. 

“Let’s try questions the easy way, to start.” L said. “How old are you?”

“Old enough.”

“You really like being difficult, don’t you?”

“Oh, there’s nothing difficult about me, Lawliet-san.” Although Light spoke in English, he maintained the suffix, piled with scathing insincerity. 

“Fine. Who asked you to kill Wammy, Light?”

“If you’re asking who wanted Wammy dead, I couldn’t tell you, because I don’t know.”

“He’s lying.” Mello said. He still looked tense, like it was taking everything for him to not smash Light’s head against the radiator. 

“Unfortunately for you, I’m not. Here’s the thing, Lawliet-san. I’m really not as powerful as you think. At the end of the day, I’m just a guy doing what I’m told for a decent pay check—that’s it. It’s just money. I’d ask if you could relate, but you’re all raised in an orphanage from childhood like X-men, right?”

“I’d say there’s a few differences between you and a fucking Uber driver.” Mello sniped. 

“On the contrary, Light.” L bit the tip of his thumb. “I don’t think there’s anything normal about you.”

Light bit his lip, looking away irritably. “I could scream, you know.” He said. “There’s nothing stopping me.”

“On the contrary. Do you really want the British police sniffing around you? I reckon there’s one or two unsolved cases they’d love to ask you about. That poor MP, for example…”

“Not my work.” Light said. “Far too sloppy.”

The door opened, then quickly shut. All eyes went to Matt, who was standing in the doorway cautiously, a laptop under his arm. With him came the familiar waft of cigarettes and cheap detergent. 

“L?” He said. He looked as if he was doing his best to stay calm. “You’re going to want to see this.”

L uncrossed his arms, shooting a stern look at Mello. “Don’t let him out of your sight, Mello.”

“As if I was going to.”

“I thought the missing children thing was a dead end, to be honest with you.” Matt started hurriedly, opening his laptop. He looked manic and was slightly out of breath—his hands trembling as he rolled himself a cigarette. “I was about to give up. But look at this… It’s… perfect timing.”

He opened a window on the screen—a news article with a photograph of a middle-aged couple. The woman had her hands covering her eyes, while the man comforted her, a sturdy arm around her shoulders. It had been taken at some kind of press conference, with a few pole officers hovering in the background. 

PARENTS OF MISSING KANTO BOY: WE JUST WANT TO KNOW HE’S SAFE. The headline read. 

“This kid went missing eight years ago.” Matt said, jamming his finger at the screen. “He went missing from Tokyo. This ten-year-old kid. And look at this picture…” He scrolled downwards. The face was younger, and softer, but still, the features were unmistakable. L’s heart quickened. 

“A normal kid, by any account. His father is a police officer, his mother’s a housewife. By all accounts, a good kid. Like, really good. He was only ten, but he’d already been in all the gifted classes at his school…. Hell, he skipped a grade. Athletic, too. Played tennis, and very well. And then… poof.”

“Poof?”

“He vanished. Into thin air, it seemed. He went to school one day, everything was normal—everybody said he was the same as he was any day. There’s footage of him passing a corner store on his usual route home. Apparently he’d walk through a park to get there—there were witnesses of him going in—and then at some point during that walk home… he disappeared. And I mean disappeared. None of his stuff was found. No body, no leads. Nothing. The police put a lot of work into it at first, but nothing came of it. The case went cold.”

L leaned over Matt’s shoulder, examining the last picture that was taken of the kid. Him at a tennis match, or something similar, smiling politely, an oversized racket in his hand.   
Tsuki Yagami at tennis practise, five days before his disappearance. The caption read.

Tsuki Yagami had certainly changed. His features had harshened over the years, his cheekbones had gotten higher, but other than that, it seemed clear. 

“Shit.” L murmured. He pinched the cigarette out of Matt’s fingers, took a long drag, his cheeks hollowing, then returned it to Matt.

“That’s not even all of it. The parents filed a complaint into the local police department. Said it was criminal negligence.”

“Did they win?”

“Not as far as I can see. But I’m not even sure if there’s been an inquiry yet… the coverage kind of petered out.”

L stared at the floor for a moment, digesting the new information. “I have to go.” He said, already halfway out if the door.

“Hope the two of you haven’t killed each other yet.” L said, swinging the door open, Matt just behind him. Mello looked up at him expectantly, slouched against the bed.   
On the one hand, L could tell Light he knew who he was, to see how he’d react, or use it as some kind of powerplay. On the other hand, he could keep his cards close to his chest. 

“Are you going to explain to me what just happened?” Mello said, once L was closer. 

“I’ll tell you later.” L tried to speak as quietly as he could. 

“Is it good?”

“Like I said. I’ll tell you—”

“Fuck,” Mello said, tearing away from L. He glared down at Light, who returned his gaze with trademark impassivity. “He did something with his phone, just now.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“He did. I saw him—”

“He had a phone… this entire time?” L drew out the words, the combination of anger and dread creeping up his spine.   
“Not like you mentioned it—”

“Fuck, Mello.” L couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice. “What do I have to do for some bloody initiative around her? Fuck’s sake—” He grabbed at Light, who squirmed briefly before giving up. Sure enough, there was a phone in his pocket, and another in the lining of his jacket. “Jesus Christ, Mello.” L said, cursing under his breath, dangling the two phones in front of the other man’s face. He knew rationally that it wasn’t fair to only blame Mello—it was a huge oversight on all of their parts. But right now, he needed somebody to direct his frustration at. 

Mello’s face burned. “Don’t try and act like this is only my fault—”

“Whatever, it’s pointless to argue.” Matt cut in. He was the only with a semblance of control in his voice. “What matters is that we need to get out of here.”

“Where will we go?”

L noticed Yagami, still slumped against the radiator. Although he still looked physically uncomfortable, there was a trace of self-satisfaction in his eyes, presumably watching the chaos unfold in front of him.

“I’ll call Near.” L said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn’t stammer—his thoughts starting to settle somewhat. “He has a building in London we can use with suitable… security facilities.”

His gaze momentarily locked with Light’s. It was impossible to think of the man in front of him as Tsuki Yagami—the same Tsuki Yagami smiling shyly from the faded photograph from nearly a decade ago; the man attached to the radiator was far better suited to a name as aloof and impersonal as ‘Light’. 

L reached for his phone, dialling Near’s work phone. Someone picked up after a few rings—somebody who definitely wasn’t Near. 

“Hello?” The voice said. It was gruff and baritone. 

“I need to speak to Near.” L said thinly. “Now.”

“…Who is this?”

“I’m not asking, I’m telling.”

“Okay. I’ll ask again… speaking?”

There was a knock on the door. All of them tensed at the same moment. A second knock came, this time with the words ‘room service’ being shouted from the other side. L glared at his protegés, starting to regret making them his protegés in the first place. 

“Don’t look at me.” Matt said. “I didn’t order anything.”

L sighed, tucking the receiver of the phone into his shoulder. “Wrong room!” He picked up the phone again. “Are you still there?”

“Room service!” The voice behind the door said again. 

“For fuck’s sake—we don’t—”

Matt walked towards the door, opening it a crack. “Look,” he started. “We don’t—”  
His voice was cut off by the time L turned around—Matt was still standing in the door, his body obscuring whomever was on the other side. Then he stumbled, one leg shooting back, then the other. 

Matt collapsed to the ground, his body making a loud thud again the carpeted floor. L barely had time to process what was happening—only that two figures were in the doorway—one man, and one woman—both staring right at him.  
The woman had a mask obscuring half her face, while the man wore a baklava. The woman cocked her head, displaying a long knife clasped in her fist; the blade glinting, streaked with red.

L’s eyes flitted to Matt’s unmoving body at their feet. For a moment, time seemed to cease moving forwards—all Light could see were the pair of dark eyes peeking out the woman’s mask—cold and furious.

He lunged for the window without realising, feeling Mello’s presence close behind him. He rattled the lock, stiff with disuse, until it eventually dislodged. He flung it open and climbed out onto the windowsill—an outstretch of roof beneath him. The drop was at least five metres, but L jumped without thinking. 

When he landed, he felt the air knocked out of his lungs. But fear was a good antidote to pain, and he got to his feet seconds later, starting to run, Mello not far behind him. From the window they could see the woman staring down at them. 

“Shit, L. I think she has a gun."

Their question was answered by a bang, then a second. L didn’t have time to look back, diving as far away from the window’s line of sight as possible, scanning his surroundings for some kind of escape route. Fortunately, it seemed only one of them was pursuing them—the other presumably freeing Light. L spotted a flight of stairs leading to a fire escape, bolting towards it, down the stairs and spilling into the street. The shots continued sporadically, before they petered out.   
It took them a moment before they realised, they were no longer being pursued, until they’d taken a right turn around the street corner. L collapsed to the floor, panting. They were in a residential street lined with high-rises, the walls littered with graffiti and ash stains.  
L’s chest heaved from all the exercise. He needed to stop smoking

“Fuck.” Mello said, collapsing to the floor next to him. “Matt…” He sounded like he wanted to say something, but his voice was choked and strained. He buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god. Oh my god, L.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys enjoyed another long chapter! thanks for all your kudos/comments on the last chapter, every time I see one it makes me happy. I'll go ahead and hide from all the Matt fans.  
> also you'll have noticed the format changed between the beginning of the fic and now--I changed it so the lines are closer together because it looks more like a novel that way, in my opinion, but please let me know which one you guys prefer! xx  
> again, all kudos/comments are appreciated. I've already started the next chapter, so hopefully it won't be too long!


	7. john doe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, love, why do we argue like this?  
> I am tired of all your pious talk.  
> Also, I am tired of all the dead.  
> They refuse to listen,  
> so leave them alone.  
> Take your foot out of the graveyard,  
> they are busy being dead.
> 
> (Anne Sexton, A Curse Against Elegies)

Mello pressed his forehead against the icy glass of the window, surveying planes of scuddy, sparse clouds in a great pool of cobalt blue. It seemed impossible to imagine that beneath him was a vast ocean, empty and desolate as a desert; halfway through the Pacific Ocean. He’d spent the first few hours of his flight attempting to get some sleep, but that soon proved fruitless. It was impossible to relax; he’d always hated planes—he hated the claustrophobia of it all, the sensory overload—the lack of an exit.

“Tea or coffee?” A voice asked, prompting Mello to turn around. The flight attendant smiling down at him was pretty—with chocolate brown eyes, her hair finely braided and tied down her back. If circumstances were different, Mello probably would have flirted with her, or, he would have encouraged Matt too, bugging him until he spoke to her. Although Matt had always been the more conventionally attractive of the two, he’d always had less confidence in speaking to women.

“No, thank you.” He said, tearing his gaze away from her. “Thank you, though.”

Technically speaking, L had dismissed him. He had wanted to stay and continue with the investigation, to travel to Japan with the other man so they could pursue the case, and Light, even further, but L had insisted he return to America, where he’d been staying prior to Wammy’s death.

“It’s for the best.” L had told him, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “It’s too soon. And this case will be dangerous. I don’t want to risk losing you, too.” It had been the frankest L had been about his emotions, at least to Mello.

“I don’t care that it’s dangerous.”

L had given him one of his looks—the look that had become infamous in Wammy’s house. That look of _just do what I say, you know I’m right._

So, Mello had done something he rarely ever did; he did what he was told.

At first, he had maintained the absurd hope that Matt was still alive—that he’d survived the stabbing and had just collapsed, then taken hostage by Light and his cronies. He’d even proposed the idea to L.

“Maybe.” L had said, without looking him in the eye. The other man hadn’t expressed much emotion since Matt’s death, but ever since that night, he’d had a withered quality about him.

Mello’s theory of Matt still being alive had been promptly disproven a day later, by the British press.

“An unknown man’s body was found at the London hotel, Montcalm Royal London House, in the City of London. The British Metropolitan Police are calling for anybody with information from that night to come forwards. The man, who police are calling John Doe, was between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five, and approximately five foot and six inches tall…”

It wasn’t fair, Mello remembered thinking. Nobody was supposed to learn of their best friend’s death from the sterile, impersonal desk of a newsroom, from a blank-faced, indifferent reporter.

Mello knew he’d be back in the investigation—as soon as possible. Wammy’s death had hurt him enough, but Matt’s death was like a knife to the stomach, a knife that kept being twisted further and further in with each passing day.

Mello’s early memories of Matt were hazy; they must have first met when Mello first arrived at Wammy’s. Even when they were kids, Mello remembered being impressed by Matt’s cool, level-headedness—his irksome disinterest in academia, which he excelled in nonetheless. He’d only ever looked at it as a distraction to lounging around his room all day to play video games. Still, he’d enjoyed the technical aspects of investigations, quickly teaching himself the basics of coding. As he’d improved, he started hacking into random companies’ websites, simply because he could. He’d never do anything bad—never take any money or personal details. Normally he’d just email the company question, telling them about how insecure their network was, occasionally defacing the website if he were in a particularly vindictive mood. He remembered lying around in Matt’s room, watching the other boy play video games and smoke cigarettes, laughing about nothing particular—comfortable even in silence.

Mello leaned forward into the window, for the first time feeling his eyes well up. He had not cried, not since Matt had died. All he’d felt was dull pain, pangs of which would occasionally radiate through his body. But now, once he’d started to cry, he couldn’t stop—letting the hot tears continue spill down his face, eventually burying his head in his hands and dry heaving. He could feel the uncomfortable stare of the woman next to him, silent in a classically English manner.

“Are you alright?” She asked tentatively, after a minute. He didn’t respond. “What is it? Is something wrong?” Mello didn’t say anything, didn’t look at her. He didn’t care what she thought.

“Sir, is there anything I can do?” The flight attendant was back, and Mello was sobbing now, more people clustering around him to ask what they could do to help—what was wrong. Was he ill? Did he need medical attention? He ignored all of them. He didn’t want to talk to them. He didn’t care.

* * *

“How was the flight?”

“Uneventful. Which is to say, fine.” Naomi’s hands were tight around the steering wheel, her dark eyes focused on the road. L examined the engagement ring on her finger, delicate and silver, a cluster of rubies around the base. It must have been expensive.

L wasn’t normally one for small talk, but the air felt taut between them; there was no animosity, of course, only respect, but one thought lingered in both their minds, unwelcome as it was—the thought of their old mutual nemesis in a tower of flames.

“I’m not going to lie.” Naomi said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t expect to hear from you again.”

“Well, I knew I’d need someone intelligent enough to keep up with me. And my previous colleagues became… unavailable.”

“Should I be concerned?” Naomi asked, only half-joking.

“Perhaps.” L continued to stare out the window, feeling restless as the car stood still in traffic. “You’re free to turn back at any moment, Ms. Misora. As I told you, this is dangerous business.”

“To tell you the truth, I think I was waiting for you to call. I’ve been so… bored. I left the FBI a few months ago, you see. I got married, so, it’s Ms. Penber now, actually.”

“Apologies.”

“It’s fine.” The car crawled forward. “God, the traffic in Tokyo is a nightmare, isn’t it? Lucky we’re close.” She pulled into a sideroad of neat suburban houses, then down another road. She sighed.

“It’s sad, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“It looks so normal.” Naomi gestured at the passing houses—tranquil in their dullness. “You wouldn’t think something so sad happened.”

“Hmm.”

She was right. Nothing about their surroundings communicated tragedy, but L supposed that wasn’t in tragedy’s nature, to be self-revealing.

If L were being honest, he’d tell Naomi that was part of the reason he’d asked her to join the investigation was her emotional intelligence, as well as her impressive deductive abilities. L was occasionally lacking in the emotional intelligence department.

There was a beat as Naomi pulled up next to a driving space. She reversed into the space with ease, then pulled the hand break. She sat still for a moment, still staring ahead.

“What if he doesn’t want to talk to us?”

“I’m banking that he will.” L rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. “It sounds terrible but… these aren’t people with a whole lot of hope.”

They got out of the car, walking to the address in silence.

“Well,” Naomi said with a sigh. “This is it.” She rang the doorbell.

The door was opened a few moments later by a girl around sixteen, dressed in her school uniform. Her hair was short, with heart shaped face and wide-set, dark eyes. L had expected to see Light somewhere in her face—but they looked nothing alike.

“Hello?” She asked, apprehensive, her eyes flitting between the two of them. Inside the Yagami household it was dim and dusty; the white carpeting on the floor was faded to dun, and the walls had multiple patches where entire portions of paint were peeling off.

“Hello.” Naomi said, with a cordial smile. “We’re here to talk to Soichiro Yagami, is he in?”  
The girl stared at them blankly. For a moment, L wondered if they had the wrong house, but then the corners of her mouth twitched. “I’m sorry. My father passed away a year ago.” Her eyes lingered on L’s ratty clothes. “Were you… friends of his…?”

Naomi and L exchanged a look. “Um… no, actually. Is Ms. Yagami here? We’re here to…”

“I work for the FBI and my colleague is a private detective.” Naomi cut in. “We’re here to talk about Tsuki Yagami.”

“Oh. One moment—Mom!” She called up the stairs, still looking sceptical, “there’s people here to see you!” She returned her attention to L and Naomi. “You better come in. Would you like some tea?”

“Er… no thank you.”

Inside, the house it was messy, newspapers piled in huge stacks up against the walls. Dishes littered the area surrounding the sink, and most of the curtains were shut, letting only thin streams of light, with the exception of the window overlooking the front garden. By the television was a photograph of a middle-aged man with a moustache and glasses, a dim candle flickering in front of it. Although he was smiling, his eyes seemed vacant, as if his mind were somewhere else.

“Sit down wherever you’d like.” The girl said. “Sorry about the mess.” She bowed, then disappeared into the hallway, returning a few moments later with a middle-aged woman at her side. The woman looked tired, as if she’d just been woken up, her hair in slight disarray. She wore a dressing gown and pyjamas. It was 5pm.

“Hello?” She asked wearily. “You’re here about Tsuki?”

“Yes, Yagami-san.” Naomi said, getting to her feet. “My name is Naomi Misora. This is…”

“…Rue Ryuuzaki.”

“Are you with the police?” Sachiko asked, sitting down opposite them.

“Not the Japanese Police. We’re private investigators.” L said. “We’re working on an independent investigation into a group of disappearances.” The lies came easily.

“You are?” Sachiko said, still looking puzzled. “Well, I suppose that’s good. We haven’t had too much luck with the police. Oh… I haven’t even offered you tea, have I? I must get us a pot…”

She got up, and Naomi opened her mouth, then quickly closed it. The teenage girl hovered in the doorway, having changed into leggings and a t-shirt. Sachiko Yagami returned with a steaming pot of tea and three cups, pouring herself one immediately. She had the air of a woman who’d once glowed with life, which had eventually corroded with time.

“So…” she started, clasping the cup in her thin fingers. “What do you want to know?”

“Start by recounting the day of his disappearance, Yagami-san.”

Sachiko looked lost. “I… it was like any other day. Honestly. Everything was normal. Tsuki always got up early, earlier than the rest of us. We’d all have breakfast together, then he’d take his sister to school. I spoke to his teachers, they said nothing was wrong. But nothing was ever wrong with him, I…” Sachiko stared down at her tea. “He was always such a good boy. He never got in trouble.” She continued to stare down at her tea, as if intensely focused at something in the bottom. Around her L could see the ghost of a once happy, once functional family. He could imagine what the kitchen might have looked like a few years ago, before bad luck dissolved any semblance of nuclear family.

“Did you notice anything different?” Naomi asked gently.

“Everyone asked me that. But I really didn’t.” She looked a little like Light, if you squinted. Maybe it was the nose, L thought.

“How about his schoolmates? Did they see anything?”

“Well… not really. There was one boy who…” Sachiko’s eyes fixated on somewhere in the near-distance, her sentence teetering off. “Well…”

“He what? What did he say?” L pried. He started to lean forwards, but then remembered he was supposed to be acting unimposing.

“He said that he saw him talking to a man in the park a few days before he disappeared. But I don’t know. The police said he might have made it up.”

L and Naomi caught each other’s eye, their interest piqued. “What did the man look like?” Naomi asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. The boy just said he was fairly young, and that he was tall. And he was Japanese.” Sachiko shook her head. “But I… I really don’t know. Tsuki would never talk to strangers.”

“I see.” Naomi withdrew a notebook from her jacket pocket, hastily scribbling down some notes. The scratching sound filled the momentary silence.

“Yagami-san,” L interjected. “Did your son ever have any… problems?”

“Problems? What do you mean?”

“I mean… behavioural problems. Anything. Did he have trouble at school, for example?”

“No, certainly not. Tsuki was always a good child, like I said. I used to get so many compliments about how well behaved he was. He never got in trouble in school. I mean…” Sachiko put her cup down with a slight thug. “I suppose… he could be a little… aloof, at times. And he didn’t have many friends—but he was well-liked. But Soichiro and I always said that was just because he was so mature for his age.”

“I see.”

“The teachers said he’d grow out of it.” She looked off mournfully. “I’m sure he would have… Is something wrong with your tea, Ryuuzaki-san?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just… do you have any sugar cubes?” L said, clearing his throat. He felt embarrassed.

“Of course! I’ll fetch them now…” Sachiko got to her feet. L got the feeling she was happy to have a distraction. She rushed into the kitchen and returning with a jar of sugar that looked like it hadn’t been opened in years.

“Thank you.” L said gingerly. He took five, plopping them into his hot tea one by one. He’d spoken to victim’s families before, but something about this was strange. Could Light even be called a victim? He stirred his tea, taking a small sip. “I hear you had problems with the police, Yagami-san.”

“They just… wouldn’t listen. They said it was a runaway… but we told them again and again that Tsuki would never just run away. He never did anything like that, not once. They wouldn’t even let us report him missing—they just said it over and over again, that they had no reason to think he hadn’t just… _left_. But what reason would he have to leave?”

“Did they look into the man?” Naomi asked. She hadn’t touched her tea. “The one that boy said he saw?”

“No, not as far as I know. They said it was an unlikely lead. Went into this whole drivel about how children’s testimonies couldn’t be trusted.” She rubbed her forehead. “They said he probably misremembered and that was why they wouldn’t pursue it further.”

“Had he ever run away before?”

Sachiko hesitated, considering the question. “Only once.” She said. “When he was very young. He was upset with his father, while we were on holiday. But he came back after half an hour…”

“It must have been so difficult for your family, Yagami-san.”

“I just want to know where he is. That was always the worst part. The not knowing.” Sachiko poured herself more tea. “It sounds terrible… but sometimes I wished he’d just died instead.” She laughed, although it was hollow. “I know it sounds awful. But not knowing… that hurts more. That was always the worst part for Soichiro. Especially going into work every day. Hearing about what went on in the city right under your nose. Everybody thinks Tokyo is safe, that crime doesn’t happen here like it does in other major cities. But it happens… I husband told me so many stories. Things happen here like they do in other parts of the world—it’s just better hidden. The things that went out without anyone knowing…”

“If you don’t mind, how did your husband…?”

“Heart attack.” Sachiko knocked back the rest of her tea and immediately poured herself another.

“The doctor said it was stress related.” Her words hung in the air for a moment as she stared ahead of her, past where her daughter stood in the doorway. She put her cup down. “All he wanted was to find Tsuki.”

Despite her somewhat dishevelled appearance, Ms. Yagami maintained an air of dignified, long-suffering composure. Her face had an aristocratic quality, despite being sallow and pale, as if she hadn’t been outside in a very long time. That regality was familiar.

“Anyway,” she said quickly, as if snapped out of a trance. Her voice suddenly took on a business-like quality. “We’ll be selling this house soon. We can’t afford it anymore. We’ll move out to the suburbs, where rent’s cheaper. It’s probably for the best.”

“Do you work, Yagami-san?”

“Looking after a house and children—a _child_ , I mean, that _is_ work, Ryuuzaki-san. But unfortunately, it doesn’t pay. And life-insurance only goes so far.” She attempted to pour herself another tea, before realising the pot was empty. Across the room, just above the kettle, was a family photo. A beaming father and collected housewife, with their two children grinning in front of them—a picture of idyllic suburban, middle-class life. “But when we move… I’ll figure it out then.” The clock ticked above their heads, echoing through the expanse of the kitchen.

Sachiko looked away. “I wonder what he’d be doing if he were still here, sometimes. He’d be at university, probably. He’d be at a top university, based on his grades. I bet I’d be so proud…” She trailed off. A thin stream of light trickled through the blinds, casting a white gash down the centre of the kitchen, illuminating the specks of dust that flooded the air. “But what’s the point of speculating, anyway?”

L didn’t speak. He glanced at Naomi. “Yagami-san.” He said. “Do you mind if I speak to my colleague outside, quickly?”

“Of course.”

L got hastily to his feet, ducking through the kitchen and into the back garden, Naomi just behind him, and checked that Sachiko Yagami wasn’t in earshot.

The garden was overgrown, with long grass reaching their knees. Weeds climbed up and around a stoned-path, clustered in thick knots in the corners; ivy had started to grow up the side of the house, curling its way over the top of the back door, and then under the windowsill.

“We need to leave.” L said lowly, eyes darting back inside and then to Naomi. Sachiko was still, tense, waiting for them to return.

“Are you kidding?” Naomi crossed her arms. “We can’t just… give her nothing.”  
“What, do you want to tell her?” L asked. For a moment, Naomi just look dumb-struck and unsure.

“I’m sure she’d like to know…” Naomi bit her lip, then lowered her voice. “That he’s not dead.”

“Yes, he’s not dead, and he’s a brutal murderer, Naomi. A brutal murderer who, if caught, will probably be put to death. What do you really think is kinder? Do you think it would make her happier, to tell her the truth?”

“But…” Naomi started, “It’s lying, isn’t it?”

“It’s not lying. It’s just not telling the truth.” Naomi looked like she wanted to protest but didn’t say anything else. “If you want to tell her, go ahead. Make that woman more miserable than she already is.” He immediately opened the door, returning inside before Naomi could get the last word. He smiled weakly at Ms. Yagami as he came in, who was still sat at the kitchen table.

“Thank you for speaking to us, Ms. Yagami, but I think we’ll be leaving now.”

“So soon?” Ms. Yagami said, frowning slightly.

“Yes, I think so. I think we’ve got all the information we need.” He gave Naomi a pointed look, offering her the opportunity to say something if she so desired. But instead her face was blank, all her usual courage seemingly evaporated. L reached for the side and picked up an empty envelope and scrawled his number on it. “If you remember anything you want to tell me, just call that number.” He handed it to Sachiko Yagami, with a respectful nod.

Empathy wasn’t something that came naturally to L, but he pitied her. He really did.

“Alright,” she said weakly. “I wish you luck in your investigation, Ryuuzaki-san. Whatever it is.”

L signalled to Naomi that they needed to leave. Sachiko didn’t get to her feet to say goodbye, aside from another brief ‘goodbye’. As they left, L stole a last look at her, staring past them through the window looking out into the street at, still waiting in the kitchen for the son who’d never come home.

\---

“Jesus Christ.” Naomi said, the moment they were alone in the car. “That was heavy.”

L didn’t respond, instead he reached into his pocket for the carton of cigarettes and lit one with a match. The smoke was sharp and harsh, momentarily burning his lungs and bringing him out of a momentary stupor.

“We need to drive.” He said. Naomi obeyed, and L didn’t look back at the Yagami household, shrinking in the rear-view mirror until it vanished. They spent the first ten minutes of the drive in silence.

“So…” Naomi said, once they were on the highway. She tapped her nails absent-mindedly against the steering wheel. “What do we do now?”

“First,” L said. “You need to re-evaluate whether you want to be here.”

For the first time since they’d left the Yagami household, Naomi looked straight at him. She looked baffled—even offended. “What do you mean?”  
“What I mean is, this isn’t like BB. This isn’t one lone psychopath; this is an organised group with connections. These are dangerous people.” L stared at the road ahead, at the cars speeding past, the suburbs dissolving before their eyes. “I’ve already lost two people I care about.”

“You don’t need to remind me this is dangerous, L. I know it is, and I’m in.”

He hesitated, thinking of Matt collapsing in the door of that London hotel. It felt like decades ago. “You need to think about it first.”

“I have thought about it, and I decided I’m in.” Naomi said shortly. She looked tense, her facial muscles taut. But still, she seemed determined. “You’re just trying to do your job, right? And so am I.”

L didn’t protest any more. He knew Naomi was intelligent enough to make the decisions for herself, and unlike with Matt, Mello and even Near, he didn’t feel a nagging sense of responsibility for her.

Naomi fiddled with the radio, turning on some Japanese pop station that, mercifully, filled the quiet for the next fifteen minutes. Despite the music, L could see Naomi getting increasingly restless.

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t he just go home?” She said, suddenly, after a saccharine J-pop song finally came to its end. “It’s weird. Why didn’t he just go home and see his parents? There was nothing stopping him…”

L watched the city disintegrate behind them as they got further and further away from the centre, the window open ever so slightly, filling the car with cool afternoon air. All this time, he hadn’t allowed himself time to pause, to think, because if he did, he’d remember that Matt was dead, that L had let him be killed through sloppiness. And once the dam was broken, there would be nothing to stop it all washing over him at once.

“I remember one of the first cases I took when I was seventeen.” He started, massaging the bridge of his nose. His headache was only getting worse. “It wasn’t particularly difficult—it was a woman who killed her husband. He’d been having an affair—on the surface, nothing unusual about it. It was open and shut. But do you know how she did it? She had her dog maul him to death, and no, it wasn’t some bad dog that freaked out, she trained their family dog to kill him. It was no accident.” He laughed humourlessly, recalling the crime scene photos. It had nearly made him vomit. But still, he’d been young then. “And do you know how she trained that dog to kill? She beat it. She just beat it. She starved it. And then when it attacked other dogs, or cats, she gave it a treat. Anyway, eventually there was a standoff between her and the police; she had her dog by her the whole time, on a lead, with a muzzle on its face, and she kicked it when it did anything wrong. It seemed terrified of her. In the end, the police shot her. I thought the dog would run away. But it wouldn’t leave—it wouldn’t do anything, wouldn’t attack anybody, it just stayed with her and kept whimpering. It wouldn’t stop whimpering and crying. And I kept thinking—why won’t you just run away?”

The airport appeared on the horizon, great and gloomy in its sterile majesty.  
“So, what happened to the dog?” Naomi asked, as they pulled into a roundabout.

“They put it down, obviously. What else were they supposed to do?”

* * *

All Light’s life, he’d been what others had called a ‘workaholic’—teachers, parents, peers and colleagues alike had always marvelled at his ability to work endlessly. They asked him how he did it, as if there were a secret, a cheat code to his success. But the answer had always been simple; that Light hated having nothing to do. While most relished the idea of leisure, Light despised it; he found the vacancy in his mind deafening. When he was bored his mind would go to the darkest place possible; he’d imagine what it would be like to disappear, or, even better, to make everyone around him disappear. He’d suddenly remember how much he despised the majority of the population; how stupid and impressionable they were. Boredom was hell; boredom, for Light, flirted with madness. But after watching Takada stab that boy—Matt, L had said his name was, and being hastily and unceremoniously snuck out of a luxury London hotel in the dead of night, he found himself exhausted. At the moment, there was nothing Light wanted more than a break. He had about twenty tabs open on his laptop—Madagascar, Barbados, Jamaica, the Maldives, Bali—to name a few; he needed somewhere with plenty of beaches and not a lot of noise—preferably sparsely populated.

He hadn’t taken time off work for years, and to be honest, he’d never felt the particular desire to, but now the idea of work itself made him want to die. Perhaps it was the intangible feeling that something greater than himself was about to descend on him; a feeling of claustrophobia—of the walls beginning to close in on him. He buried further under the sheets, ignoring the pangs of pain radiating through his head. When his phone buzzed, he flinched.

_Come into the living room, now._

Light ignored it, returning to pictures of decadent, expensive Jamaican hotels. The one he looked at had four pools, two private ones for VIP guests and huge balconies looked over the vast expanse of turquoise sea—perfectly clear and empty, infinite in its mystery. There was a spa, three restaurants, yoga sessions and culinary lessons in authentic Jamaican cuisine—

His phone buzzed again.

_Come out. I’m serious._

Light turned off his phone.

Maybe Jamaica wasn’t quite right for him. He needed something more isolated—something more private. He clicked on another tab for a hotel in the Maldives, where each guest had their own private villa on a line of rocky coast, with room service, a king-size bed and a private jacuzzi—

The door slammed open. Light looked up disinterestedly up at Namikawa standing in the doorway, his hair, normally immaculate, was somewhat displaced. His tie wasn’t put on properly; he smelled of tobacco and burned coffee.

“I don’t take kindly to being ignored.” He said, scowling down at Light, who continued to say nothing, eyes flitting back to the computer screen. This only infuriated Namikawa further. “Get out here, now.” He hissed.

Light didn’t appreciate being reprimanded like a petulant teenager, but nonetheless, he did as he was told. He’d been dreading speaking to Namikawa ever since he woke up.

He shuffled into the living room, sitting down at one of the sofas, his eyes averted. He’d always hated being in trouble, ever since he was a child. He hadn’t been able to stand it. He remembered once being told off in class for not paying attention and having to resist screaming at the teacher in question that no, _he_ was the idiot, and was stupid for trying to make Light feel small. Even then, Light had known he was destined for greater things than that stupid teacher could even imagine. His pinkie finger was more special than the entire course of that teacher’s miserable existence.

“Have you got anything to say for yourself?” Namikawa asked. His voice was calm—the kind of calm Light had come to fear.

He took a deep breath. “I made a few mistakes in London—”

“A few mistakes? You ditched Takada and Mikami. Don’t try and pretend you didn’t.”

“I lost them.”

Namikawa let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re a good liar, Light. I’ll give you that. But don’t ever think you can lie to me, because it’ll never work.”

Light pursed his lips. “I’m _sorry_.”

“You should be. If we hadn’t saved you, you could have blown our cover. Hell, do you realise how much mess there’s already left to clear up? And think how much worse it would have been if we hadn’t come to get you.”  
“You _know_ I’d never tell them anything.”

“You don’t know that. What if they’d tortured you?”

“I still wouldn’t. Do you remember when you were training me. You made sure I could endure anything. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say there were times where you were verging on _sadistic,_ you fuck—”

The slap came without warning, hard, sharp and clean. It took a moment for Light to realise how much his cheek stung. He bowed his head, feeling the heat radiating through his face with the tips of his fingers. He was quiet, staring at the tiled floors, cool and hard beneath his bare feet.

“I would have been fine.” Light grumbled. “If he hadn’t had two other people there—”

“But he did, and you weren’t.” Namikawa cut in. He started digging through his pockets, withdrawing a carton of cigarettes. He lit one and hollowed his cheeks out, taking a deep toke.

“You’re arrogant.”

“Maybe. And I have good reason to be.”

Namikawa regarded him and shook his head. “I fucked up, creating you. I made a narcissist.”

“Just admit it. You didn’t think I’d be able to do it on your own—”

“No, I didn’t. Because I _know_ who L Lawliet is, and I know he’s a dangerous man.” Namikawa tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette. He rarely smoked nowadays, so Light knew that when he did light up, he was stressed. “I knew he’d probably have something up his sleeve. Do you know how many of our kind he’s put away, Light?”

Light was starting to feel stupid. He hated feeling stupid. Namikawa must have noticed his expression shift, because his voice softened somewhat the next time he spoke.

“To tell you the truth,” Namikawa said. “I knew there was a chance he’d get one of you. I wanted to reduce the chances of it being you.”

For the first time since Namikawa hit him, Light looked back up. He wanted to laugh.

“Now you’re trying to flatter me?” He couldn’t pretend it wasn’t working, at least a bit. 

Namikawa ran a thin finger over the surface of the dark wood desk. A film of dust had accumulated on his forefinger. He made a disgusted face.

“We need to deal with the other two.” He said, flicking what was left of the dust off his finger. “We left two witnesses, and that’s a problem.”  
“I know.”

“You’ll get it done, won’t you?”

“Obviously.”

“You need to be careful.”

“I am careful. This is the only time I have tripped up, and trust me, it’ll be the only time.”

“Not the only time.” Light’s head snapped up. Namikawa stubbed out his cigarette in an empty mug. “I don’t want another Yamamoto situation.”

Light’s mind was cast back, involuntarily, to being fifteen again. It was so rare for him to feel something for someone—and in that occasion, he’d gotten carried away. He’d been careful to avoid getting attached ever since. “I was still young then.”

“And you still are.” Namikawa’s voice was calmer now, more controlled. “I’m just saying. I trust you won’t fuck it up again.” He adjusted the collar of his shirt, giving Light a rare smile. His teeth were unnaturally white and long, and were oddly shaped in some places, giving his grin a carnal quality. He started to leave, smoothing the legs of his trousers, but paused halfway through the door, turning back to give Light a long look. “Light?”

“Hmm?”

“You know you’ll always be my favourite.”

Light didn’t react. “I know.”

“Of course. Stupid of me to think you didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this. As usual, thank you for your comments and kudos, they all make my day. Also, I re-formatted the chapters so they're clearer to read after your feedback on the last chapter. Love you all, and hope you enjoying the fic so far! xx


	8. the boy in the empty tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a man who dwelt alone  
> beneath the moon in shadow.  
> He sat as long as lasting stone,  
> and yet he had no shadow.  
> The owls, they perched upon his head  
> beneath the moon of summer;  
> They wiped their beaks and thought him dead,  
> who sat there dumb all summer.  
> There came a lady clad in grey  
> beneath the moon a-shining.
> 
> (J.R.R. Tolkein, The Shadow Man)

The Florida heat was sticky, making Light woozy during the day and restless during the night. When he’d woken up that morning, still jet lagged, the sheets had been stuck to his back with sweat; he’d peeled it off, getting to his feet and walking out to the balcony—watching palm trees sway drunkenly with the light breeze. It had remained overcast and humid all day, even now, when it was evening; the sky was dusty, a heather sort of colour—thick with pollution. They were a few miles outside of Miami—but the aura of such a heaving metropolis was far reaching.

Now, the guests congregated by the crystalline pool, cocktails in hand, laughing, a few dangling their feet in the water, the rest spilling onto the hotel’s beach. The air was dense with the smell of rum and chlorine; the bar was a few metres from the pool, although the groups waiting were surprisingly sparse. If his mood had been different, Light might have liked to take advantage of the free bar; however, instead, he ordered a glass of iced water, not a cocktail. He wondered if people knew he wasn’t supposed to be there, although, if they did know something wasn’t right, they were being subtle about it.

He spotted Aiber near the balcony looking over the sea, a woman in a slinky, lavender dress at his side. He seemed relaxed—his shoulders were back, his platinum blond hair slicked back. He’d gained weight, Light noted.

He returned to the crowd, slipping his hands into his pockets. He thought back to his early memories of Aiber—from all those years ago, when he’d seemed like Namikawa’s calmer, more benevolent twin.

For once, he knew why Namikawa had sent him; because he’d wanted Aiber to recognise the face of the man who would kill him. He wanted Aiber to see Light’s face before he died.

* * *

The call from Near came not long after L returned from visiting Sachiko Yagami. When the unknown number flashed on his screen, L had half-expected it—but, for a moment he had stared at the phone buzzing, impatient and flickering. He picked it up, after a moment.

“L?” The garbled voice asked.

“Yes?”

“It’s N. I’m calling you from the United States. I received your message from the other week.”

L was outstretched on his hotel bed, staring at the blank expanse of the ceiling, then again at the sky outside. He felt tired, but his heart was still racing—perhaps the result of relying heavily on caffeine during the past few days.

“A little bit late.” He muttered.

He thought back to that night. The way Matt’s body had slumped forwards, collapsing to his knees when he’d been stabbed—the moment in which time had seemed to stand still, as L surveyed his options, blood splattered across the beige carpet. He recalled how acid the red had seemed against the other colours, which were all so washed-out and non-threatening.

There wasn’t a response, for a second. Just silence suspended in air.

“I’ve booked you a flight to Los Angeles.” The voice said, then it hung up. L called Naomi a few minutes after, deciding that her assistance would continue to be necessary. Besides; Naomi’s fiancé lived in Los Angeles—she knew the place well.

The building in which Near resided had only been built recently—and now it towered on the horizon, slightly unnatural in its clean, white walls. The word that came to mind, for some reason, was ‘virginal’.

L punched in the code Near had given him, waiting a few seconds before the door buzzed. Naomi was quiet, pensive, fiddling with a strand of silky hair.

As they walked in, L noticed the lack of life surrounding them; the lobby was completely empty, the smell of paint still acrid—nobody was behind the desk, no other workers around. There was only clean, untouched furniture, and high, marbled ceilings.

Near was on the fifth floor, according to his text message. The message had likely come from one of Near’s FBI colleagues—Near disliked to do that kind of thing himself—although he pretended otherwise, Near disliked working alone. L had noticed that a while ago. At the time, he’d considered it a weakness, although now he wasn’t so sure.

“It’s kind of creepy.” Naomi said, crossing her arms over her chest. Her jacket was slung around her waist lazily, dangling by her knees. She’d now scraped her dark hair out of her face, messily tied on the top of her head. “Good air-con, though. Not like that hotel.”

She’d called her fiancé on the way here, telling him where she was, that she was working on the job, and that she’d call him later. She’d sounded clinical as she spoke with him, even disinterested, or more likely, distracted.

“Near said he’d have a colleague meet us at the door.” L said. He examined himself briefly in the elevator mirror—his pallid features looked particularly sallow. He even had a shadow of stubble across his jaw. He found himself enveloped by a feeling of claustrophobia as they ascended, the windows whizzing past in a flurry.

When they exited, a tall, blonde woman was waiting by the door. In her heels, she towered over both Naomi and L. She nodded at them in acknowledgement, flashing an ID card at them that L barely had time to look at, and offered out her hand. “L, I believe?”

L took her hand, shaking it hastily. “While we’re here, please call me Eraldo Coil.”

“Fine. I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Coil. And you are…?” She finished, gaze drifting to Naomi.

“Naomi Misora.” Naomi gave the woman a thin smile. “I work for the FBI.” She fumbled for her badge, before the blonde woman stopped her.

“There’s no need.” She said quickly.

“Ms. Misora is a trusted colleague of mine.” L said thinly. “I would like her assistance in this case. I believe she has valuable insight.”

The woman straightened her back. She wore a tailored suit, clearly expensive and lined with satin. L wondered how she could bear to keep it on in heat as oppressive as this. “Very well. My name is Halle Lidner. I have been his assisting N in his research, along with the rest of our team.”  
Naomi raised an eyebrow. “…His research?”

Lidner hesitated, her lips slightly open. Her eyes were a strange colour—a pale amber, nearly gold—and unusually sharp. Like broken bottles. “Follow me, Mr. Coil and Ms. Misora. We have a lot to discuss.”

She led them through a variety of halls lined with compact offices—all desolate, then up a flight of stairs.

“Why is the building so empty?” Naomi asked.

“It’s only just been built. We were the first to move in.” Lidner said, tapping in another key code.

The door beeped, then opened, revealing a large, barely furnished room; on one side was a long, mahogany table, chairs stacked on top, and on the other side were several computers, two men tapping away at the keyboards. On the floor was an enormous puzzle, consisting entirely of matte, black pieces; most pieces had been slotted into place, although a few were left on the side, sorted forensically into piles. Hovering above the incomplete puzzle was a man—or, to describe him more accurately—a boy; short in stature, dressed in pyjamas, his pale hair falling in his round face. The word that came to mind to L when considering Nate River, and indeed, to the minds of many others, was ghostly.

Near looked up, his colourless eyes landing first on Naomi, then on L, before returning to the puzzle piece he held between his thumb and forefinger.

“It’s good to see you, L.”

“Please, call me Mr. Coil.” L pushed his hands into his pockets, examining the room around him. The two men who’d been at their computers had now turned to look at him, although they occasionally turned back to their computers, as if trying to mask their interest. “At least, while we’re here.”

“I understand.” Near placed a puzzle piece on the tiled floor, with surprising care. L noticed that across the room, one wall was panelled simply by an enormous mirror, reflecting the back of Near’s head, as well as the faces of Lidner, L and Naomi. “And you are Naomi Misora, aren’t you?”

“I am.” Naomi said stiffly, offering out her hand, but Near didn’t take it.

“I read through the case file for the Los Angeles BB murders.” He stared at her; his gaze steely.

“Very impressive.”

“Uh… thank you.”

“Would you both like to take a seat?”

“It’s fine.” L cut in. He didn’t have much patience for all of this useless foreplay. “Let’s be direct, shall we? What information is it you want to share?”

Near tapped his finger against the partially reconstructed puzzle, the sound echoing through the mostly empty room.

“To tell you the truth,” He started, “we were hoping you’d be the one’s hoping to share some information.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve been conducting a parallel investigation into Wammy’s death.” There was a long pause. “I’m… sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

L thought about expressing displeasure but decided against it. How, really, could he be angry at Near for leaving to surreptitiously to conduct his own investigation, when lying and self-centredness was all he’d ever taught them? “…It’s alright.” He said weakly.

“No.” Near frowned a little, it was stark, considering his normally immobile features. “I wanted to be the one to catch Wammy’s killer; that was the reason I didn’t cooperate with you. But following Matt’s death… I realise, had we worked together, we probably would have gotten further.”

“There’s no point dwelling on it. Now, we might as well share information.” Frankly, L wanted to move on from the subject of the past few weeks, in particular Matt’s death.

“You know who killed Wammy, don’t you?” Near allowed the question to hang in the air, just for a moment. The room was silent. Naomi dug through her bag, pulling out a binder and flipping it open. She hesitated, unsure of what to do, before passing it to Near.

“You should have a look through this.” She said gently. Near stared down at the sketch of Yagami, already open.

“His name is Tsuki Yagami.” Naomi added. “But he goes by the alias of Light.”

“Tsuki Yagami went missing about a decade ago. At some point between him going missing and now, he became the hitman known as Light. And I get the feeling he’s responsible for plenty of cold cases.”

“So he was the one to kill Wammy?” Near brushed his finger over the sketch, which seemed to stare coolly back at him.

“I believe so.”

Near’s eyes flickered as he examined the notes Naomi and L had kept neat, printed English in Naomi’s case, and a hasty scrawl in L’s. “And you’re certain it’s him?”

“Well, just look at the photograph of Tsuki Yagami.”

“Yes, it’s certainly a striking resemblance.” He tugged the photograph of a young Tsuki from out of the file. “Do you think the Yotsuba group took him?”

“So, you know about the Yotsuba group?”

“As I say, we’ve been conducting our own, parallel investigation. But for us, at least, the aims of this ‘Yotsuba’ group remain a mystery.”

“You’re in a similar position to us, then.”

“Do you have any theories of your own?” Near closed the file.

L considered the question for a moment, scratching his chin. He ought to shave. “I think there are two options.” He started. “The first option is that they are a middleman for contractors. Think of it as going to a letting agency instead of renting from the landlord directly… I’d say there’s a forty percent probability of that being the case. The second option is that they’re a larger group with their own set of assassins, who they’re using to eliminate people for their own ends.”

“Or a combination of both.” Naomi added.

“That’s… also possible. They’ve done a decent job of concealing their tracks… mostly.”

Near nodded. “So… it’s unlikely Yagami is the one who wanted Wammy dead?”

“I personally believe he was just taking orders. He has no association to Wammy; so, I can’t see why he would. Yagami strikes me as somebody who doesn’t make unnecessary moves.”

Near continued to read through the notes. At the bottom L could see the scrawls in Matt’s handwriting. He looked away.

“Do you think Yotsuba were the ones to take Yagami?”

“Presumably.” L replied, with a shrug.

“We’ve done some research into Penber.” It was Lidner, this time, from behind them. L had almost forgotten she was there.

“You have?”

“Gevanni,” Near said. “Show them the research we’ve done into Takada.”

One of the men at the computers nodded, turning around in his chair and gesturing for L and Naomi to come over. Naomi and L leaned down, on either side of Gevanni’s shoulders. Gevanni was muscular and ruggedly handsome, with dark hair and a solemn expression; L could imagine his as an anti-hero in an old noir movie. He had a picture up on the screen, a mugshot of a young woman.

“We believe this is the woman who lured Penber to his death.” He started, brow furrowed. Although the picture was a mugshot, L found it difficult to believe the woman in question was a killer; her eyes were dark, but soft and slightly wounded. Her makeup was smudged around her eyes, which were ringed with red. She looked young, too, no older than sixteen.

“This picture was taken six years ago.” Gevanni said. “In China. She was picked up by the police for prostitution and armed robbery; she spent some time in a local jail. By that time, she was going by the name of Kiyomi Takada.”

“’Going by’?”

“There’s no record of a Kiyomi Takada born in Japan in the appropriate timescale. It’s likely an alias.”

L looked at the picture once again, feeling the creeping feeling of discomfort in his chest. “How old is she here?” He asked.

“Around fourteen or fifteen, I’d say. In this picture, at least.”

L felt a knot form in his stomach. “And what happened?”

“According to records of the time, she died. There was a fire in the building, and she was never found. They recorded her as having died during the fire—they claim the fire was so hot it incinerated her bones.”

“But that’s impossible. Bones only burn at over a thousand degrees—most house fires don’t reach six hundred…”

“That was the first red flag.” Gevanni replied. His voice was remarkably atonal. “We think she got away.”

“Do you think the Yotsuba got a hold of her?”

“It’s likely. It’s also likely that somebody didn’t want her to be found, wherever she was.”

Naomi was still staring the picture. “You have to feel sorry for her, though, don’t you?”

“She was likely the one to kill Matt.”

“Yeah, I know. But… still.” Naomi stepped away from the screen. Her lips were slightly pursed, her gaze somewhere on the floor.

“There’s certainly something strange about it. In all likelihood, Takada escaped, and the Yotsuba took her in, seeing that she was vulnerable.” L leaned down on the desk next to Gevanni, his shoulders hunched.

“That’s disgusting.”

“I’m sure they’ve done worse.”

“We can discuss in greater detail tomorrow. Gevanni and Rester need to get back to their families.” Near said. He was still stooped over his puzzle. “In the meantime, is there anything we can get for you, Mr. Coil? Ms. Misora?”

L was a little disappointed that the session was cut short; things had just started to get interesting. He considered, prepared to say that he was fine, before changing his mind. “Actually, yes.” He said, turning away from the others, slightly. “I get migraines. Is there a doctor I can see?”

“Yes, if you would like. I have my own personal doctor, Garenne, who will be able to see you. I’ll give him a call. He should be able to see you tonight. Is there anything else you need?”  
L turned to Naomi, who shook her head. “No, that should be everything.”

Near’s doctor was a well-trimmed man in his forties. His blond hair, although balding in parts, was combed to the side. He wore a well-tailored suit, the shirt unbuttoned at the top.

“What’s bothering you?” Garenne asked.

L itched his hair, unused to feeling uncomfortable. He didn’t normally care what other people thought about him, but nonetheless, a feeling of self-consciousness had permeated his system. Doctors had always made him uneasy, especially shrinks. And despite not being one, this man had the air of a shrink.

“In short—insomnia.” He started. His voice was stilted, so he cleared his throat, hoping that would make him feel more comfortable. It didn’t.

Garenne nodded slowly. “Not unusual. Especially in such a high stress position… do you think there’s anything causing it? Or can you just not get any rest?”  
“Well, yes, that. But I also… I can’t stop thinking...”

“Are you distressed by what you think about?”

“Yes.” The thinking part was true enough—L could never stop thinking, especially at night. Everybody was nothing but an endless, thought machine—but his was constantly in overdrive—operating at breakneck speed. But his thoughts never troubled him—and that was the worst part—he examined his thoughts with clinical, apathetic interest—like a surgeon disinterestedly prodding at a tumour with a scalpel.

“That’s understandable.” Dr. Garenne said. He was scribbling something down. “Would you say you feel anxious, during the night?”

“I’d say yes, probably.”

“Are you troubled by anxiety during the day, too?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever had a panic attack?”

“Yes.”

“Do you get them often?”

“Yes.” L lied. He’d had only one panic attack in his life; when he was young, after seeing a particularly grizzly dead body. To this day—the lifeless face of that woman haunted him, bizarrely intact, despite her insides being painted across the walls.

“How often?”

“Well… a few times a week. Sometimes a couple times a day, if things are particularly bad.”  
Dr. Garenne nodded, continuing to write in his pad. “I’ll write you a prescription for melatonin,” he said. “That should help the insomnia. I’ve also written you a prescription for alprazolam. Take one if any of the panic attacks get really bad, even better, take half, if you can. This stuff can make you a little drowsy. And forgetful—if you take too much.”

“Oh… can it?” L said, feigning ignorance, when in fact he was no stranger to benzodiazepines. He couldn’t help the slight rush of euphoria when he realised that he’d be getting a free, legal supply.

“Let me know if there are any problems.” Dr. Garenne tore out a sheet of paper from his pad, sliding it across the table towards L. “There’s a twenty-four pharmacy around the corner, I suggest you go there if you want it soon.”

L thanked him and left. The whole appointment had lasted no longer than five minutes.

* * *

Aiber had plunged further into the crowd, a drink in hand and the woman at his side. Light knew that Aiber had a wife and a child now, although he wasn’t sure if the woman that he was dancing with was actually his wife; he doubted it, somehow. Aiber’s face was flushed pink as he spun the woman around and around; she giggled, her hair flowing around her, fanning out like an auburn halo.

Aiber had turned his life around, supposedly. Namikawa had told him that, accompanied by a derisive roll of his eyes. Namikawa believed that nobody ever changed, not really, and he had drilled this belief into Light from a young age.

 _Don’t bother listening to the stories about how they’ve changed, about how this is just a legacy of their old life. It doesn’t matter how much they cry,_ He’d told him. _None of this nonsense about how that was all in their past, whatever they did to get where they now are._ _All any of us are is the things that have happened to us, and it’s all we’ll ever be_.

Light had first met Aiber when he was twelve years old. Back then, he’d been struck by the man’s kindness and good humour—at the time it had been in stark contrast to all the other adults in his life, who’d never been anything other than cold and harsh, like the winters had been in Hokkaido—the place where he’d spent his early adolescence.

Aiber had been the one who’d first shown him how to use a gun.

He remembered the first time he’d wrapped his fingers around the cool, hard surface of the trigger at the age of thirteen; the sub-zero temperatures had made it so chilly that it numbed his fingers. Back then, he’d still been little more than a scared child, thinking desperately of home; conflicted between missing his family and his loyalty to Namikawa.

 _Squeeze it._ Aiber had said, his voice soft. _Don’t push it_.

Over to the side Namikawa had stood, dressed in a thick coat. He’d watched Aiber and Light, chuffing away at cigarette after cigarette, although it was so cold that it became difficult to distinguish between plumes of smoke and his breath suspended in the air.

Light had still been haunted by nightmares, back then. Every night he saw the man in the mask, or the back of a car; sometimes he saw his mother, or Sayu, and he’d chase after her, pulling her shoulder so she could turn around and look at her, but then when he’d look at the face more closely he’d realise it wasn’t Sayu—or indeed his mother—at all, but a stranger.

He remembered pulling the trigger, followed by a flood of disappointment.

 _It’s alright._ Aiber had said. _Try again._

Now he saw Aiber before him, noticeably older, but still much the same—although as he got closer, he saw a few strands of silver in his hair. He laughed, pulling the woman closer, his lips centimetres from hers.

_Where you can, wait. Then you know the perfect moment to strike._

Light threaded through more people, too engrossed in whatever they were doing to notice him, or indeed, the knife hovering between the folds of his pocket and his thigh.

He remembered feeling the prickle of Namikawa’s gaze on his neck. Sometimes he still felt that prickle, even when Namikawa wasn’t there at all. The trigger was cold and solid, and Light had squeezed it, slowly.

He was just a metre away from Aiber now, but still, the other man didn’t notice him, too engrossed in the woman before him, and her rapturous laughter as she threw her head back. They were illuminated by the eerie, blue light of the pool—painting them dichromatically. Like an old movie.

Light slipped the knife from his pocket, close to them now, close enough to touch the thin, silver chain dangling from the woman’s slender neck. Aiber looked up—Light wished he could have taken a picture of the moment of recognition, when his laughter evaporated—that fatal, split second of fear. Then Light slipped the knife into his neck—and it sunk in like butter.

_Bullseye._

It was easy to get away, in the panic, nobody stopped him—all anybody could do was turn around, the horror dawning on their face that something awful had happened, in slow motion.

Light slipped away, down the beach, not turning back, except to look back one more time at the woman in a lavender dress, now coated in red.

When L woke up, he felt like he’d been jolted awake. He got up hastily, still a little groggy, surveying the expanse of his half-lit room. His dream was still in his mind, ready to spill out, like a current sizzling through his body. To his surprise, the back of his neck was sunburned, as were his cheeks, and his neck felt sore against the scratchy sheets.

His dream was disappearing from his memory, like sand slipping between his fingers. All he remembered was a face, charred in parts, disintegrating into black dust.

Beside his bed was a box made from snowy white card, partially ajar. Inside was a half-eaten cake that he had no memory of purchasing, the pale pink buttercream smeared up the sides. By his head was an envelope, when he shook it, it sounded like there were photographs inside.

The pot of Xanax he’d been prescribed was by his head, along with some packets of chewable melatonin Garenne had prescribed him, just to sweeten the deal. He opened the jar and looked inside. When he’d first got it, it was completely full, and although it was still mostly full—a good part was certainly gone—he must have taken at least fifteen of the 1mg tablets, along with two of the chewable melatonin.

He got up and stretched, feeling his back crack after a long period of disuse. Near had been considerate enough to put a small kettle in the corner, along with some sachets of instant coffee and tea bags. L poured himself a cup of weak instant coffee, plopping in five cubes of sugar, and used it to wash down two Xanax tablets, ignoring it when the coffee burned the roof of his mouth. He emptied the envelope, allowing the contents to fall to the floor: inside were polaroid photographs, some of nothing in particular, a few of the blurred Los Angeles sky, then a few of L, with groups of people he didn’t recognise. In one, he was with a woman with short blonde hair and tattoos running down her arms, red lipstick smeared across her face her arm slung around L’s neck in what looked to be a bar. Another photograph was a blurred picture of a group of people—it had been taken too hastily and none of the features were visible. L couldn’t help the chill that ran down his spine—he felt as if he were looking of photographs taken of a bizarre doppelganger, not nights lost in an amnesic fog. He had no recollection of any of these being taken; the last time he remembered being conscious was on the fifth—two days ago. They must have been taken at some point during that period. He had no idea he’d even left the building.

L opened his laptop, noting that Gevanni had sent him the files on Takada to read for himself. He skimmed through them, slowing down to focus on the events surrounding her disappearance six years ago.

Nobody was sure how the fire had started. However, evidence pointed to it being arson. Takada’s last known activity was to make a call to her family before returning to her cell—two hours later, the whole place was ash. Three people had lost their lives: all prisoners who’d hadn’t been able to get out in time. In the article linked, Takada was included among the dead.

She was likely to the woman who’d taken Matt’s life—the eyes certainly seemed familiar. The question was; what had transpired between Takada’s escape, and her coming into the hands of Yotsuba? Then again, it was entirely possible Takada’s escape and her joining Yotsuba were linked…

L closed his laptop and downed the remainder of his coffee—now tepid—and stretched. He changed into new clothes, then went outside into the hallway.  
The others were working when he arrived. It took him a moment to process that it wasn’t the morning, as he’d assumed—but 4pm. Everything seemed unreal, as if it could be a dream; he half expected Wammy or Beyond to appear somewhere, behind a door, or inside a cupboard.

“Hello.” Near said, without looking up. He was sat on the floor, as usual. If he’d been anybody else, he’d have been chided by now, like he used to be at that awful job in Birmingham, although that seemed like lifetimes ago. Now, nobody dared to question why he’d only just woken up, or why he seemed so dazed. Those were the perks of having people fear you more than they cared about you.

“Good afternoon.” L rolled his neck, surveying the others. Naomi was talking to Gevanni, not having seemed to notice his entrance, holding a flask in one hand and leaning against the desk with the other. “I… apologise for my absence over the past few days.”

“Absence?” Near asked. He seemed bemused. “What are you talking about?”

L stared at Near for a moment, before he tearing his gaze away. “Nothing.” He said. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Had he been continuing the investigation, even during the midst of a Xanax-induced fugue state? He made a mental note to cut down on the Xanax usage next time he was feeling stressed; although this was problematic when Xanax made you lose your memory. “We were just discussing what you told us about Kida yesterday.” Near continued. If he were genuinely confused about L’s behaviour, he didn’t show it.

It took a moment for L to place the name—before he remembered that Kida had been the man Higuchi had mentioned the last time they spoke. The one who’d killed himself. “Oh, yes.” He said, pretending as if he recalled the exchange. Had he really been coherent enough to start proposing lines of research to his colleagues? “That is certainly an important point of reference.”

“Ms. Misora and Gevanni have been looking into the fiancée that you mentioned. We think we’ve found her.”

“You have?”

Naomi beckoned L to come and look at the computer screen. She stood over Gevanni, peering over his shoulder. “Look at this,” she said. Her voice was taut, tense with the thrill of sliding another piece into place. “She definitely fits the bill.”

The photograph on the screen was of a Japanese woman with bleach blonde hair; it had been taken in a professionally, and featured the woman in a gaudy, pink outfit, and although she wasn’t particularly scantily dressed, something about it seemed lewd.

“I think I’ve seen her before.” L said, eyes travelling over the heart-shaped face, the eyes coloured by pale contact lenses.

“That’s definitely not out of the question. She’s a reasonably famous model in Japan.” Gevanni explained, his face washed out by the fluorescent lighting. “You probably saw her in an advert or something and didn’t even realise.”

“What’s her name?”

“Misa Amane. She was engaged to Kida before his death.” Gevanni opened another window, showing Amane with a tall, middle-aged man with a long, solemn face. The picture looked like it had been taken outside a club; both of them looked slightly irritated in having their photograph taken, although Amane was naturally photogenic, while Kida was not.

“Something tells me she wasn’t drawn to his personality.” Naomi muttered.

“This article is just some tabloid trash, speculating about ‘Misa Misa’ and her new man.” Gevanni jammed a finger at the headline. “It says he’s wealthy—but that they weren’t able to figure out exactly _how_ he got his fortune. Accounts seem to vary. Some people said he was a hedge-fund manager, others said he was the accountant of some anonymous, billionaire philanthropist. Another article said he was an art-collector, and that he inherited his fortune from his uncle.”

“Definitely shady.” L bit his lip. He took a look at Amane—she certainly didn’t look like the kind to get involved in Tokyo’s clandestine underworld, although looks could be deceiving. “We should go and talk to her.”

“Already on it.” Naomi said. “Gevanni and I have already booked tickets to leave for Tokyo for tomorrow morning.”

“Oh? Without me?” L asked, only half-joking.

“Well… we figured you were better off staying here and looking into Yagami.”

“Yes.” L said, taking a step back. “I suppose that makes sense.”

He sat down, unsure of what else to do. He still felt a little spacy, and that feeling was only getting more intense as the pills kicked in. He opened a document, intending to jot down more potential theories to mull through later, but his thoughts returned to Yagami. He opened the sketch of Yagami that Linda had done, so uncannily accurate, so striking, that it had permanently tattooed itself on the inside of his eyelids.

Yagami was in his dream last night.

He wasn’t a central figure, but he was omnipresent—sometimes, in his dreams, he’d feel Yagami’s gaze on him, from a nearby window or from behind a tree. In his dreams, sometimes he’d notice Yagami in the corner of the room, silent, watching L with a serpentine grin. Should L have been scared of Yagami? He probably should have been afraid. But he wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait on this one, been working on some of my original fiction. as always I love to hear any feedback or thoughts, if you want to message me/ask more, make sure to follow me on livingdeadgurlz on tumblr :)) xx  
> as always, thank you all for your kind words and kudos <3


	9. violent delights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is short, though I keep this from my children.  
> Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine  
> in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,  
> a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways  
> I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least  
> fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative  
> estimate, though I keep this from my children.  
> For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.  
> For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,  
> sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world  
> is at least half terrible, and for every kind  
> stranger, there is one who would break you,  
> though I keep this from my children.
> 
> (Good Bones, Maggie Smith)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a 7k big boi.

  
“Another one. Another one we could have prevented.” Near said sourly, tossing the newspaper to the ground with a gentle thud. It was a copy of _The Daily Mississippian_ —on the cover was a photograph of Merrie Kenwood, in life rather than death: the Hattiesburg housewife found stabbed to death in her kitchen with a meat cleaver. The article said there were no suspects yet identified, and a motivation was yet to be established. It was peppered with words like ‘shockingly’ and ‘unexpected’.

“Merrie Kenwood was once known as Wedy. She was a foot soldier to the Yotsuba, until she decided to leave her criminal life behind and yet married. Now? She’s dead. If we’d worked quicker, she might still be alive.”

“You don’t know that, Near.” Said Rester. “We didn’t even know who she was.”

Near seemed unusually troubled, which was strange, since L was unused to him displaying any kind of emotion. The ffeeling of frustration probably wouldn’t have been so palpable had the body of Tierry Morello—previously known under the alias of ‘Aiber’—hadn’t turned up on an autopsy table just days before—stabbed to death at his nephew’s engagement party. 

“He’s getting careless.” L said lowly. “He killed Morello surrounded by witnesses. What does that tell you?”

“It tells you that he’s confident he won’t get caught.” Naomi deadpanned. She was sat at her desk, clicking through photographs taken in Kenwood’s most-mortem. Kenwood looked like a mannequin, just as many corpses did, with her marbled, translucent skin and blank eyes, staring without seeing.   
Kenwood had been in her kitchen when she died; she’d been found sprawled out on her black and white, tiled kitchen floor, a rich, dark pool of blood around her head, a meat cleaver buried in her chest. 

“We’re at a dead end.” Near said glumly. He lay on his front, legs dangling behind him, staring down at the floor. “We know he was in America, but that’s it. We have no idea where he is by now… Ms. Misora, have you looked further into Kida?”

“I’ve combed through some of the police reports, but it’s all… foggy. The original autopsy was destroyed, then another was commissioned.”

“That certainly doesn’t seem right.” L mumbled. He stared out the window—a storm was brewing; the clouds had clustered until they blanketed the whole sky, like a constellation of bruises. 

“Without a doubt.” Near fiddled with a strand of blanched hair. “But what leads can come from this?”

“Have you tried contacting the police?” L suggested weakly. 

“Sure.” Naomi replied. “But that didn’t get me anywhere. I get the feeling it’s going to take a little more than _asking_ in order for them to budge.”

Near paused. “…And how about Amane?”

“I don’t even know where she is.” Naomi shook her head, a strand of hair falling in front of her eyes. Although L could tell she was stressed, she’d managed to maintain her composure over the last few days—the same couldn’t be said of most of the others. “It’s depressing, I know. It feels like we’re close, but still…”

Naomi’s frustration was palpable—and L felt it too. He’d spent the past few days, at least, the times when he’d been lucid, researching Kenwood and Morello, looking for anything that could lead to useful information. 

Morello was taken into a foster home when he was young, then spent his adolescence in and out of juvenile detention facilities—despite frequently getting in trouble, he’d never seemed to have a particular predisposition towards violence, only trickery and guile. Then, at twenty-four, he’d done his first stint in real prison—ten years for armed robbery and fraud. He’d gotten out early on good behaviour after seven, and after that, his movements were difficult to trace. L could only assume this was the period in which he’d started working for Yotsuba. He’d wondered when exactly they might have approached him—could it have been after his release, when they figured out he was an intelligent man, only unable to get a job due to his criminal record? Or did they have connections inside the prison, who scouted for recruits on their behalf? 

Kenwood’s story was a little more nebulous. She was born in Toronto, a military brat, and spent the first twenty years of her life moving from place to place. Then, for nearly ten years, her movements were impossible to trace, until she reappeared in a minor Mississippi suburb, married and pregnant. Five years later, she was dead on her kitchen floor. 

“Whatever’s happening, he certainly isn’t scared.” Naomi said, leaning back in her chair, crossing one black denim clad leg over the other. 

“That’s for certain. He’s only become more… confident.” Near flicked a jigsaw piece aside, and it clattered against the floor. “It would seem,” he continued bitterly, “that he’s flaunting what we know in our faces.”

“So… he’s saying… ‘what do I care?’”

“Essentially.” 

There was a moment of pensive quiet, in which everybody’s eyes seemed to settle somewhere on the floor. 

“Maybe we should give up on finding Yagami for now.” Lidner said gently. She was leant against the wall, a cup of coffee in hand, perhaps the only one who seemed like her normal self—that was, stoic, cool and blunt. Even Naomi seemed a little deflated. “There’s a possibility we need to do some more homework before we go after Yagami, perhaps if we by start by looking further into Kida, and Kenwood and Morello—”

“If we forget about Yagami,” L cut in, “who knows how many more people he could kill?” 

“But how are we going to find him? Unless you have any suggestions—”

“There’s no point discussing it.” Near said, before Lidner could continue; his voice flat. “We can multitask.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” L said, getting to his feet. “You can all continue looking into former Yotsuba members. I’ll go after Light.”

“Don’t say that.” It was Naomi, now, her brow furrowed. “We’re better—and stronger—working together.”

“You all are, but here, I don’t feel I’m of much use here. I’m better off going to pursue Light myself.” 

There was an uncomfortable silence. 

“If that’s what you wish to do, Mr. Coil, then so be it.” Near said, without looking up.

“At least… give it some thought first. Maybe a few days. And then we can see if we could get some more intel about Kida.”  
Near continued to shuffle his jigsaw pieces around filled the room. The sound of them skidding against the floor made L wince. 

“I’ll think about it.” L said flatly. “But for now, I’m going to do some research on my own.”

He knew he was being gauche, but he didn’t care. Something about the headquarters was wearing his patience thin—the noises, though spare, were overwhelming his senses; the atmosphere was exhausting. He’d always been an introvert, to say the least, but he’d mostly been able to swallow his primal instinct of wanting to be alone if it meant he could pursue his ends, and if he felt he had something to gain from working with others. But the goal in question still felt light years away. 

Naomi opened her mouth, as if about to say something, but then closed in quickly, swivelling around to look back at the computer screen, biting her thumb. L wasn’t sure, but her hand seemed to tighten around the mouse.

“Do as you please.” Near was still on the floor, although his movement were stiffer than usual, and he seemed unwilling to meet L’s eyes. “We won’t stop you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He replied thinly. “Goodnight.”

L started by skimming through more articles concerning the disappearance of Tsuki Yagami, then went through some of the notes Matt had kept. After a while, he felt a headache starting to clang its way against his skull, so he took an aspirin and two Xanax. (The Xanax probably wouldn’t actually help the pain, but it would certainly calm his nerves. That what they were prescribed for, right?)  
When, half an hour passed and he still felt restless, he took another, then started watching video taped interviews of the witnesses to Morello’s murder.

_“Did you see anyone you didn’t recognise?”_

_“Uh, let’s see… I mean, I wasn’t really looking, to be honest. I mean, I remember seeing a young man I didn’t really recognise. But I thought he could have been someone’s partner, you know? Someone’s new partner, who I hadn’t been introduced to…”_

_“What did he look like?”_

_“Oh… I don’t know. Young. I thought he was a little young to be there, that’s what I remember thinking. He had light brown hair, Asian, around medium height… maybe on the taller side…”_

L was falling asleep, for the first time in two days. Last night, he’d been unable to get to sleep, avoiding the pills and combing maniacally through Kenwood’s death certificate, looking for anything that could lead to something else. By the time the sun crept up from behind the horizon, he’d found nothing, and had a nagging pain creeping up from the base of his spine. 

But now, invisible forces were tugging on his eyelids, calling him into an uncertain dreamworld. But L didn’t want to dream; all his dreams were filled with bizarre shapes and shadowy figures that lurked behind doors, or under the table. They were spindly and faceless, occasionally taking on the silhouette of whoever was occupying his mind as of late—sometimes Wammy, sometimes Matt, sometimes B, occasionally A. Sometimes Light, too. More often than he’d like to admit. 

After a while, he drifted into an uneasy half-sleep, wherein he was semi-aware of his surroundings, but found himself catatonic. While the sheets and pillows beneath him were soft, inviting—the duvet weighed on him like concrete. He was aware of the omnipresent, sticky heat, and the potent smell of petrichor. Still, it hadn’t rained in days. As if the skies were waiting for something. 

He felt a presence above him, like somebody was staring down at him. He shifted slightly, trying to lull himself into a deeper sleep.

“Is he awake?” A voice said softly, so deep and rumbling that it could hardly be heard. It echoed slightly, seeming to dissolve in the air.

“I don’t think so.”

“He’d hate to see you here.”

“Ha! As if he’d ever want to see your ugly face here, either.” The second voice was higher, but distinctly male, and slightly nasal. It had an unsure, adolescent quality to it. Was he dreaming? L wasn’t sure. 

They squabbled for a moment. They sounded so real—so clear, but L had to remind himself that his bedroom door was triple locked (it had been double locked when he first got here, but he’d added another, just in case) and besides, the voices he could hear were long, long dead. Was this what it was like to be in a coma? Unable to move, to scream, to react…

“You’re a selfish bastard, do you know that?” The deeper voice said, the sound rumbling through the room. 

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You are. You know it’s true.”

There was a sigh. “Isn’t it weird? Being here? It doesn’t feel right, does it?”

Outside, the wind rattled the glass of the window. The sound of a car skidding, and, oddly, the smell of something burning. 

“You know,” the deeper voice said irritably, “I don’t think you appreciate how much you hurt me.”

“Sure, because everything’s about you, isn’t it?”

“That’s not the point. We were a team, and you left. You know, they thought we were freaks.”

“Hah! You loved it. You loved the infamy.”

“Plenty of bad things happened to me. But did I hang myself on the shower curtain rail?” Some hollow, raspy laughter. “No, I didn’t.”

“Shut up.”

“You know, it was the little kids that found you. Just another footnote in their existing plethora of trauma to be repressed. Dr. Sigmund would have had a field day with that place.”

“You’re the worst.” The other voice spat, clearly intending for that to be the end of the conversation. But it wasn’t. The words had barely ended before the other voice cut back in.

“Of course, the worst thing was the smell. You know what dead people smell like, don’t you?”

“You don’t know what I’d been through.”

“It’s all excuses with you, isn’t it? It’s all sad eyes and moping, and me, me, me.”

Quiet. Maybe the other voice had decided it wasn’t worth it. 

“You know what it’s like to kill somebody, don’t you?” The deeper voice said, goading, amused.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“There’s nothing like it, is there? Did you enjoy it?”

“Of course I didn’t, you sick bastard.”

“Do you want to hear something terrible? When I first did it, I got an erection. I really did. Just a bit, and I didn’t even know why. Had to hop off as soon I could, run from the cops, find myself a public restroom and relieve myself.”

“You are disgusting.”

“Did it make you hard? When you did it?”

“Of course not. I was never given a chance to choose, you know. Not like you.” A sniff. “I was never given a choice. If you hadn’t been given a choice in becoming a killer, if somebody had _made_ you do it, you’d have offed yourself too.”

L turned, and the voices started to get muffled. As if he was deep in water. They got fuzzier and fainter until they weren’t distinguishable at all, aside from the staccato intonation, and the raising of a voice as the conversation got more heated, then cooled back down, until the voices were gone entirely. 

* * *

L woke up at his laptop, unsure of how much time had passed. His face had been on the keyboard, and now he could feel the imprint of the keys on the side of his cheek. Outside the sky was a milky blue, signifying early twilight. 

_What time was it?_

He got to his feet, looking around for signs of an intruder. It was clear that nobody had been here but him—no open windows, nothing different from how it had been when he went to sleep, and the door was still triple locked. 

On his computer screen, to his surprise, was A’s file from Wammy’s house. A’s face, gaunt, spotty and sallow, plastered across the computer, his watery, blood-shot eyes staring out at L. L’s gaze flitted over the notes, plus the ones he’d made himself, that he had no recollection of writing. There was a section of A’s file that L didn’t recognise—psychiatrists’ notes.

_Neurotic. Harbouring trauma over an event he refuses to disclose. Doesn’t take pressure well._

A was another skeleton that needed endlessly stuffing back onto the cupboard. He hadn’t been able to handle the pressure of being a successor—despite his high intelligence. Wammy had advised L to take the pressure off him, but L had insisted they continue to hold him to high standards. 

_Too much potential to be squandered with babying_. He recalled telling Wammy. 

And now? All that potential was gone, buried somewhere in an unmarked grave in Winchester, under six feet of dank, worm-infested soil. They never even found out his real name. So much potential, all squeezed out second by agonizing second, with three metres of raggedy farmer’s rope.   
He printed out the notes about A, and left them on the side, reasoning that he’d go through them later. It was unlikely to be relevant—probably just more late night, Xanax-induced madness. L lit a cigarette out the window then padded out into the hallway, meandering into the main office. Inside the darkened room, there was only Naomi, hunched over her desk, illuminated by the amber light of the lamp at her side. He stood behind her for a moment, watching her crane her neck further towards the screen. Her fingers hovered over a steaming cup of tea, her nails tapping listlessly against the rim.

“Found anything interesting?” L asked. Naomi flinched, pressing her hand into her chest as she turned around. 

“Jesus,” she muttered. “Don’t come up behind me like that.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She sighed theatrically. “Unfortunately, not. I’m just wading through a swamp of shit right now.” She was looking at a picture of Amane and Kida, at their engagement party. Amane was wearing a gaudy fuchsia slip dress, breasts bursting out the top, her hair done up ornately and beaming at someone out of the frame. Kida’s smile, on the hand, was more subdued, as he looked carefully at the camera, his arm hooked around Amane’s waist. The photograph had a strange sheen about it—a moment frozen in time which was saturated with colour and ecstatic hope; who could have known that in just a few months, the groom-to-be would be cold and still, in a mortuary?

“Sometimes I wonder if she had any idea what was going on.” Naomi carried on. “I mean, you’d think she’d have some kind of inkling, right? If you were engaged, you’d think she’d notice something was office.”

“Who’s to say. If she’s only just found out, she’s had the shock of her life.”

“Do you think it’s worth pursuing?”

“Who knows? I’ve thought there were plenty of leads that would get us somewhere, but none of them did.” L cleared his throat. “Apologies, I shouldn’t have sounded so hopeless. It’s not like we need that, right now.”

Naomi bit her lip. “Are you serious about wanting to investigate this thing on your own?”

“I think I work better on my own. Other people around me… all that noise… it’s quite distracting.”

“I think we work well together. Like with the Los Angeles BB murders… we were a good team, weren’t we?”

“That’s true, I suppose. Listen, I don’t know permanent it’ll be, anyway. Just until I make some headway into Yagami.”

“You know, we have bigger fish to fry than Yagami. In order to get to the bottom of this, we’re going to have to pull the weed out by its bloodsucking roots.”

“I agree. You, Near, and the rest of the task force can focus on that.” Naomi gave him a long look. “We’ll be working together soon. We just need to split up for now, so we can cover more ground.”

“I think you’re fixating on Yagami. Because he killed Wammy.” She looked away. “Frankly, you’re getting a little monomaniacal.”

L crossed his arms over his chest. He trusted Naomi’s opinion—he really did—but he was so sure Light could be the thing to crack the case. “My personal feelings have nothing to do with this. I’m a detective. And I’m trying to do my job.”

“Fine, fine. Do as you please. I’ll look into Kida.” She seemed chafed. 

“Do you have idea what his role might have been?”

“Not sure. I mean, I get the feeling he was somewhere in the inner circle, but that’s pretty vague terminology. All we know was that he was important enough that they wanted to get rid of him.”

“I don’t think they have a particularly high threshold for actions that warrant being gotten rid of, to be honest.”

“Clearly they give Yagami a lot of the important jobs.” She raised an eyebrow. “Do you think he has any autonomy in the matter?”

“Unlikely,” L said grimly. “They got him when he was a kid. As far as they’re concerned, he belongs to him. Do you this Yagami took out Kida?”

“I’m not sure. It’s difficult to say. Maybe it was Takada, or another one of them. Who knows how many of them there are?” Naomi rubbed her temples. “I get the feeling they’ve been behind quite a few high-profile cases.”

“You think?”

“I mean, they’re taking high key jobs, aren’t they? Kida was down as working as working for Honjo.”

“Honjo? What is Honjo?” Why was nobody keeping him in the loop? He ought to be consulted, hell, he should have been the first to know; he was the greatest detective in the world, last time he checked (which, admittedly, had been a couple years ago). He was the loop. Whatever that meant. 

“It’s a shell company. It doesn’t exist. I traced the address down on official documents, and it’s an abandoned warehouse in the middle of fucking nowhere, in some barren field in Hokkaido.”

“So, you think it’s a front for Yotsuba?”

“Almost certainly.”

L hesitated, thinking back to his meeting with Higuchi. “Higuchi said he was a secretary. Maybe he was in charge of circumventing funds from Honjo to Yotsuba. Someone had to do it. I mean, I guess even an international assassins’ guild needs boring administrators.”

“Very possibly. And looking through the records, it looks like Honjo was racking in hundreds of millions. They were carrying out big contracts.”

“What do the records say Honjo is?”

“It’s a minor tech firm, apparently. A tech firm that’s racking in nearly a billion dollars.”

L considered her words. “Well, it makes sense why they’re so trigger happy, then. They’re the real deal.” His headache was returning, despite the aspirin. Somehow worse than before. “Look, I’m going to try and get some proper sleep.”

“Did you not get any last night?”

“Barely.” He said, “we’ll talk tomorrow.”

* * *

L smoked another cigarette, this time outside but found it didn’t curb his feelings of listlessness, even as he watched the pearly plume of smoke rise and dissolve into the damp air. He unwrapped a bar of chocolate and started to nibble at it, before putting the kettle on to prepare himself a cup of tea.   
As he was standing over the counter, waiting for the tea to brew, he thought he felt the prickle of eyes on the back of his neck, but when he turned around, he saw nothing but the shadows and blank, desolate walls. 

It was his imagination playing tricks on him. Perhaps now that Matt was dead, the paranoia was really starting to set in. His turbulent dreams that had occupied the night before still weren’t entirely out of his head. He nibbled a bit more on his bar of chocolate.   
It was completely dark now, through his window, L could see the mauve sky—not a single speck of a star visible, cloaked by a thick curtain of Los Angeles pollution. 

He slurped down the remainder of his tea and lay, face up, in his unmade bed, in a tangle of sheets, waiting for sleep to come. But still, his thoughts carried on, unable to settle. That was what he liked about the Xanax—it slowed everything down, made it more manageable. Like a temporary lobotomy. 

Honjo warranted looking into further. Did they have any legitimate employees? How had they not been clocked earlier? Were they bribing the Japanese police to keep things quiet?

He googled the name, and very little came up, apart from a few mentions on conspiracy theory forums. He’d check those later.

He tried to close his eyes, to sleep, but found himself too twitchy and uncomfortable to close his eyes for any longer than a few minutes. L turned the bedside lamp on, staring out at the room surrounding him. A car sped through the street below, the headlights momentarily flooding the walls with dancing shadows. He smoked in bed, flicking the ash into his empty teacup. 

Still, the feeling of being watched. Like an albatross strung tight around his neck; the feeling was purely intuitive, but L tended to trust his intuition. It was rarely wrong.  
Could Near have bugged the place? No, he wouldn’t. Would he? 

L got up, cigarette still dangling from his mouth, and rummaged through his bag, withdrawing a small pocketknife he’d been gifted several years ago. It was a fine thing—made of silver, exquisitely crafted—carved onto the helm was one phrase:

_These violent delights have violent ends._

The maker must have had a grim sense of humour. It had been a gift—from a long-forgotten friend. 

L slipped it into his pocket, letting the tips of his fingers rest on it as he returned to bed. 

God, he really was going mad. 

It was much easier to spiral into self-destruction when Wammy wasn’t there. It wasn’t that L wanted to die—his masochistic tendencies manifested from negligence more than anything else. Wammy had been a good curtailment to that; his kindly, mild manner had been good at getting L to meet the basic necessities of survival. But now, with his absence, falling into bad habits was just so easy. He didn’t want to die—if anything, he’d always been driven by a hopeless, desperate desire to _live_ , like a fish flapping around hopelessly in a net—unsure of where to go.

Still, the end of his cigarette hung limply from his mouth—the stench filling the room—not that L could tell. 

He got to his feet, rubbing his head, and padded back to the kettle. He really was going mad. 

“You know, those things will kill you.” A voice said, from behind him.

L’s muscles spasmed in shock, and he pulled the knife from his pocket, releasing it from its helm. Light stared at him blankly, with vague amusement. 

“What have you got that for, then?”

L stared at him, disbelieving—at the symmetrical, disinterested face—strands of hair falling in his face. His hands were plunged in his pockets—he wore black, dress trousers and a grey turtleneck, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“So, are you here to kill me?” L asked, his voice surprisingly steady. He lifted the tip of the knife, so it was aimed at Light’s heart.

“I’m not, actually. I’m here to talk.”

“Like I should believe that.”

“I’m serious. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Is that what you told Wammy?” L jutted the knife out further. “How did you get in here?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets. Now, can you put that knife down?”

“And what? Let you murder me? Like Matt?”

Light’s eyes softened slightly. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t want your friend to die.” He lifted his arms slightly, so they were by his head, like he was surrendering. “Just put the knife down, okay?.”

“Why are you here, Light?” L’s voice was low. “You need to leave.”

He was still unsure whether or not he was dreaming. How could Light possibly be here? In his bedroom? Asking him to _talk_ of all things. No, this was another waking dream.

“I told you, I want to talk. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t kill people for fun.”

“So, you have no vested interest in me being dead?”

“It’s not _my_ interests at play here, don’t you see that? Do you really think I’m the one giving orders?” L was reminded of a petulant teenager; he studied his face for a moment. His brow was furrowed, and he didn’t appear to have any weapons immediate to him. Cautiously, he lowered the knife. 

“No,” he said softly. “I don’t.” There was silence for a moment. L stared at Light through the half dark—in this lighting, he looked ethereal; the lamp lit up the back of his head, turning the auburn strands of hair on the edge of his head into roaring gold. “I know who you are.”

“You do?” Light’s voice was smooth, playful, even. He didn’t seem scared. 

“You’re Tsuki Yagami.”

Neither of them spoke. Light shifted. “Yes, at one point, I suppose I was.” He expression changed for a moment; the movements so tiny that they were barely visible. 

“What is it you want to know, Light? Why have you come here?” L leaned against the counter, running a hand through his hair irritably. “I should call security right now. Get you locked up, where you belong.”

Light rolled his eyes. “So, you think I’m a monster, do you?” He asked sourly. He sounded strangely needy, as if L’s opinion actually mattered to him.

L didn’t answer. 

“Fine.” Light said, after a second, his jaw tensing. He looked like he was chewing gum. “Think what you want. I don’t care. I want to know what you know about Kida.”

“What an earth are you talking about?”

“Don’t bullshit me. You and I both know he didn’t commit suicide.”

Something behind Light’s tone was unknowable—if L didn’t know better, he’d say it was _pleading_. Maybe even scared. 

“Why do you do what they say?” L asked. “Surely, you know killing people is wrong.”

“You don’t understand my circumstances.”

“They don’t care about you. They’ll discard you once you stop being useful to them.”

“Do you do this a lot?” Light said. He just seemed vexed, rather than genuinely offended. He tilted his head inquisitively. “Answering a question with another question? It’s very frustrating.”

“What do they have on you, Light? Whatever it is, it’s not worth it.”

“See, you’re doing it again. Very annoying.” Light checked his nails. The poster child of nonchalance—but still, L didn’t buy it. He was thinner than L had imagined he’d be, although the difference seemed negligible, it made him seem more vulnerable. An unfortunate reminder he was still a teenager. “I understand, though. You must hate me. If I were you, I’d hate me too.” Normally, L would have pegged his words as merely self-pitying, although he wasn’t entirely sure. Still, it was very possible that Yagami was simply an expert at manufacturing sincerity. 

“Quite the contrary, actually.” L paused, looking away. “To be honest, I’m really quite fascinated by you.”

L didn’t make eye contact. He didn’t want to see Light’s expression of smug self-satisfaction.

“Can I have a cup of tea, or something?” Light asked.

Next thing, L knew, he was sharing a cup of green tea at the table with a serial murderer, as if they were old friends. He dumped sachet after sachet of sweet-n-low into the tea without thinking, as Light watched his with disdain.

“In Japan,” he said, “you’d be taken out and shot for that.” 

“I don’t care about authenticity. I care about how it tastes.”

Light leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs. “So, are you going to explain how you found out who I was?”

L shrugged. “It really wasn’t that hard. We combed through the missing person’s database in Japan. Once we came across your case file, it really wasn’t that hard to put two and two together.”

“Still. You’re the first to work it out.” Light blew on his tea. “Well done.”

It certainly seemed as if Light had some kind of respect for him, begrudging as it may be. L tried to meet his eyes, but his almond-shaped eyes, a pale, hazel-colour, were impenetrable. What had the Yotsuba done to break him, to turn him from an ordinary schoolboy and into a killer?

“You’re staring.” Light said.

“You know, we could work out a deal. If you stopped working for the Yotsuba and helped us.”

Light snorted. “Do you really think it’s that easy? Besides, you’re assuming I want to.”

“You have a family. You left them behind.”

Light’s eyes darkened. “I stay away from my family because I want them to stay safe.” He said icily. “Besides, I’m barely their son anymore. There’s no point.” He put his mug down with surprising force. “Next question, please. Then I get to ask you one.”

“Who do you take orders from?”

“Come on, I can’t answer that.”

“Do I get another one?”

“No. My turn. Why are you here?”

“Visiting colleagues.” L stared into his tea. A few granules of sweetener were still swirling around the bottom. 

“Anything to do with me?”

L glared at him over the rim of his cup, not responding. He put it down with a slight clatter. His pocketknife was still in his pocket, ready to be used at any moment. 

“How can you do it?” He asked coolly. “That’s what I want to know.”

“What do you mean?”

He laughed humourlessly. “Kill people in cold blood. What else?”

Light stared at the ceiling, seemingly searching for a suitable answer, like he was in a job interview. “What I find is, generally, most people who have a hit out on them have it coming.”

“That’s a childish way of looking at things. By the same logic, don’t _you_ have it coming?”

Light smiled blandly, taking a sip of his tea. His gaze settled on somewhere behind L. 

“You know,” he started, “I was very curious to talk to you again. The man who seems so set on pursuing me.”

A snort. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Well, apparently I’m fascinating. Oh, come on. Don’t look at me like that. Can’t you tell I’m kidding? Normally I’m the one people say is humourless.”

“Do you normally talk to your enemies like this?”

“The word ‘enemy’ implies it’s visceral, doesn’t it? The truth is, I don’t feel that strongly about you, Lawliet-san. What have you _really_ done to me, personally? Apart from handcuffing me to a radiator.” L noted the use of the Japanese-suffix, despite Light talking to him in English. “Consider it a professional relationship.”

“You were trying to kill me. You killed Wammy. You killed Matt.”

Light waved his hand vaguely. “Swings and roundabouts.”

They didn’t speak for a moment. Outside, the trickle of rain had turned into a downpour, despite the hot winds swirling around the streets. It was the kind of rain that was normally reserved for tropical climates—warm, torrential—unrelenting, but atmospheric, in a gloomy way. 

“You’d normally expect this kind of weather from England.” Light said mildly, looking outside. “You grew up there, didn’t you? You speak like an Englishman, even when you speak Japanese.”

“I didn’t think my accent was very strong.”

“It’s not just your accent. It’s other things.”

“Like what?”

“Mannerisms.” Light said with a shrug. He leant back further in his chair, hands supporting his head. “Winchester. So that was where you grew up, was it?”

L took a gulp of hot, sugary tea. “Yes. From the age of about eight.”

“And before that?”

L narrowed his eyes.

“Sorry, sorry.” Light relented. “Shouldn’t have asked. You’re from that orphanage, aren’t you? The one run by Quillish Wammy.”

“You know about Wammy’s house?”

The corner of Light’s mouth twitched. “In my line of work, a place churning out child super-detectives hell bent on putting people like me away forever is pretty important to know about.” L had never considered that Wammy’s house was anything other than top-secret. “You know, it doesn’t sound very different from my childhood, really. I was also trained to become an expert in my field from a very young age at a… specialised institution.”

Outside, the wind continued to howl, rain pummelling at the windowpane, which was tilted slightly to the sky. Under the table, L slipped his hand into his pocket, tracing the inscription on the knife’s helm with his fingertips, and wrapping his hand around it. 

“Perhaps I was raised with certain expectations,” he said carefully. “But everything I did with my life, I made a choice to do.”

Light’s good-natured expression slipped slightly—to that of mild exasperation. “Well,” he replied evenly. “Good for you.”

There was a flash of lightening, flooding the room for a brief second with harsh, white brilliance. That second where the room was ablaze cast Light’s features far more dramatically—his face suddenly seemed harsh and angular, a contrast from the soft handsomeness that his face normally exuded. But the illusion was gone as soon as it came, and then the room was lit as it was before: by one lamp sitting in the corner. A second later was the rumble of thunder. Suddenly, it occurred to L that he ought to be scared.

“The gap wasn’t very long.” He noted. “The storm must be close.” 

“I think it’s coming from the East. They say that means the storm will last another two days. Are you superstitious, Lawliet-san?”

“Not at all. I prefer to reach conclusions for myself.”

“That’s good.” Light’s eyes drifted around the room, studying the unmade bed, the open pot of pills lying on the side, the tobacco pouch left discarded on the sheets. He got hesitantly to his feet, walking to the window. Although he said nothing, his contempt was obvious. His eyes scanned downwards, to the streets below. Then he walked past the walls, studying the non-descript watercolours lining the walls—they’d been there when L had arrived. Suddenly, he stopped walking, the soles of his shoes scuffing against his shoes. Even from his vantage point, where Light’s back was turned, L could tell his expression had darkened. He picked up a piece of paper and studied it; it took L a moment to realise it was the notes he’d printed out concerning A. 

“What are you doing with—”

L took the moment to strike, moving so quickly as to nearly be falling, letting the flade flick out against the pale column of Light’s neck. Light, instinctively, leaned back, so that L’s head was hovering over his, his arm jutting out to prevent himself from falling. 

“Jesus,” Light muttered. Despite his uneasy smile, L could tell he was rattled. “Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want to hurt you?”

“Why are you here?”

“I told you. I want to talk.”

“Don’t bullshit me.” L pressed the knife closer; a tiny bead of scarlet blood bloomed, then trickled down Light’s neck, painting a needle-like stripe down the centre. It took him a second to realise that Light, too, had a knife pointed at him, protruding ever so slightly into the flesh of his thigh.

“You’re here because you want me to know you’re going to kill me.”

“I’m not here to kill you.”

“I don’t believe you.” L snarled. “Maybe not today. But you want me to know that you can.” Without realising, he’d leaned in further. He could feel Light’s breath against his cheek, surprisingly steady. 

“What?” Light asked mockingly. “Are you angry about it? Are you gonna kill me?”

The wind was howling now, making a terrible, high pitched whistle that only seemed to get more intense with each passing second. Light slid the knife higher, letting it drag over his stomach until it was pointed against his sternum. 

“Why did you come?” L asked again hoarsely. 

“You’re a very rich man, Lawliet-san, if the rumours are to be believed. Your question should be, ‘why don’t I have better security?’”

“You know, I don’t find you charming in the slightest.” L lied. “Two people I cared about are dead because of you.”

“Really, what did you expect? Maybe you should stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong—”

“Why do you work with them? The people who stole you from your parents?”

Light gave him a peculiar look. “What are you talking about? They didn’t take me from—”

Suddenly, there was a bang on the door. “Mr. Coil? What’s going on in there?” A bleary voice asked; it sounded like Lidner. “I heard voices.” L was reminded of that bitter night in the London hotel. 

“One second—” Light had taken the opportunity to move, but before he could move properly, but L caught by the neck him before he could get any further. Light’s mouth opened, so L squeezed harder, until not a single sound could come out. 

“Should I come in?” Lidner asked, from the other side of the door. 

“No, no. It’s fine.” L said hurriedly, continuing to tighten his grip. Light’s eyes had widened, the blood vessels in the whites of his eyes becoming visible. His hands clawed desperately at L’s hands, to no avail, his face gradually draining of colour. 

L could kill him; he could get this all over with. It was what Yagami deserved. He could keep squeezing for around two minutes—the rough amount of time a human being could go without breathing air, and then Light would finally stop troubling him. It had been around thirty seconds so far—soon, the supply of oxygen to the brain would be cut off, and tiny vessels would begin to burst from the pressure, then Light would lose consciousness; if he didn’t, there would be a headache, inability to concentrate, and occasionally, a feeling of absolute euphoria. After more seconds of lack of oxygen, black spots might start to appear in his vision—the prelude to the end; then the denouement. Suffocation was a long, excruciating way to die.

Light continued to struggle for a few more seconds, then his knee jutted out, landing squarely in L’s crotch. L fell away, and Light started to wheeze—taking long, desperate gulps of air. He shot a look at L, who was still recovering, grabbed the papers from the side, and darted towards the window.  
L rubbed his head, pain still flooding his stomach. When he next looked up—Light was gone—leaving nothing but an open window, the curtain whipping maniacally against the wind.

* * *

  
Light lay slumped against an alley wall, ignoring hammering of warm, thick rain drops against his skull. He still felt a little dizzy, even now that at least fifteen minutes had passed since he’d escaped L’s room. Something was ringing in his ear—high and sharp, incessant. Relentless.   
He tilted his head upwards and opened his eyes slowly, staring at the bleak sky; he didn’t mind the feeling of being soaked, each drop reminded him that he was, still, against every odd, still alive. He had difficulty believing it himself sometimes. 

When Namikawa had first found him, he’d nearly been dead. When he’d first opened his eyes to see the floods of white light, he’d thought he was himself, and still, every time he should have been killed, he’d managed to hold on…

_“They won’t get you, will they, cat?”_

Nine lives. Nine times to die. Which life had just been used up? His sixth?

He got to his feet, shivering slightly as he did so. He had a headache, one that was long and throbbing, like something hard and cold had been wrapped around his head and was being gradually tightened. He composed himself, rolling back his shoulders, and gingerly pressing a fingertip against his throat—still tender. Then, he walked away quickly, undeterred by the weather, until he was as far away from L Lawliet as he could possibly get. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to the comments I got on the last chapter, and on my Tumblr. I appreciate you guys reaching out, I was feeling really down about this fic this time last week, but I realised I loved what I'm writing, and I appreciate that you guys are enjoying too.


	10. nine times to die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A backstory chapter, just because. Yes, this probably should have been the ninth chapter, not the tenth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peel off the napkin  
> O my enemy.  
> Do I terrify?——
> 
> The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?  
> The sour breath  
> Will vanish in a day.
> 
> Soon, soon the flesh  
> The grave cave ate will be  
> At home on me
> 
> And I a smiling woman.  
> I am only thirty.  
> And like the cat I have nine times to die.
> 
> (Lady Lazarus, Sylvia Plath)

_i._

The first time Light should have died but didn’t, he was twelve, and not afraid at all.

He’d been lying on the floor of a dark room in his own filth, feeling the scrape of broken ribs against his lungs with each inhalation, the dull, radiating pain; living had become more tedious than excruciating. Occasionally he’d taste the bitter, metallic fill of blood lodged in his throat. His head would throb, and he’d lift his arm, bruised, although not broken, not like the other one, and feel the swell of the bruise on his lip, the size of a cherry.

_How stupid._

Things might have been different.

He’d drift in and out of sleep, and his dreams were filled with the acrid smell of beer and cigar infused breath, the gentle voice of his mother, offering him tea once he was finished studying for the night. The smell of new cars, the leather glossy with blood.

He was bleeding out, and had been, for the past few hours. There had been so many times during the past few weeks when he’d thought it was his time die. And every time it had happened, he’d been filled with such an overwhelming fear, his heart seemed to stop. So many times, when he thought that they’d cut to the chase and kill him. Wasn’t he a liability at this point? Shouldn’t they just get it over with?

And now, death felt inevitable. Consciousness was already ebbing and flowing, and he could barely concentrate. But he wasn’t scared, no not at all.

The end definitely felt like it was approaching, and Light acknowledged it with forensic interest; he imagined himself floating somewhere at the top of the room, staring down at himself, at the bruises, the eye swollen shut. His other self was apathetic. Impatient, even.

If this was death, Light had thought, he supposed it couldn’t be so bad.

And still, against all odds, death had evaded him.

_ii._

The second time Light should have died but didn’t, he’d been in Reykjavik, on one of his very first jobs. Namikawa hadn’t trusted him to do things on his own at that point, so he’d sent him along with Mikami on one of his assignments.

Light had been fifteen, Mikami nineteen. Both of them were relatively inexperienced, but together, they could get the job done, at least, that had been what was expected. Although Light was certainly precocious, and Namikawa had wanted to start giving him jobs a year early, higher-ups had refused, insisting he was too inexperienced, and should be supervised for the first year. At the time, this was irksome, since Light saw his skills as infinitely superior. Age correlated with wisdom, but the correlation certainly wasn’t perfect; cven Mikami seemed to realise this, judging from his awkward deference to Light’s opinion. Every time Light made a suggestion that went against Mikami, he’d fall into self-conscious silence, and say that Light was probably right, anyway.

They called Iceland the island of fire and ice. It was easy to see the latter part; Reykjavik was surrounded by high mountains edged with snow, the great expanse of murky blue-black water, shimmering slightly in the moonlight. The fire part, however, remained more elusive—hidden up where the volcanoes were. It was winter—when the days were brief flashes, the night a long, inescapable tunnel.

The target in question was Reimar Sveinbergsson, an Icelandic businessman. Normally he worked overseas in Berlin, but had returned to his home in Iceland, where his wife and young daughter lived. Problem was, while in Berlin, he’d started a new life with his mistress, which his wife eventually caught wind off. She’d asked them to shoot him dead in the garden.

It wasn’t a major job, and the price wasn’t that high, hence why Mikami and Light, relative newcomers, had been assigned it. Still, Light was vaguely curious. When he’d pressed Namikawa for more details, Namikawa had told him, with some annoyance, that it wasn’t his job to ask questions.

Although Light had been fifteen at the time—he’d felt much older. At that point, he’d never killed anybody for money, but he’d practised it so much, he felt like he already had; virtually every second of his waking moments consisted of perfecting the art of ending a life, from the starting point, the beginning of the chase, right to the bitter end. Of course, there was no real end in the process of killing a person, because even long after they were dead, there was the constant fear of being caught—that your actions would someday catch up to you. But that part of yourself could be trained and suppressed—like any other supposedly human instinct.

“Are you nervous?” Mikami asked.

“Not really.”  
“Oh, right. Me neither.” He fumbled with his shirt. Mikami didn’t seem like he was, legally, an adult, or indeed, like he’d killed people before. He seemed like more like an ungainly teenager, lanky and spotty, with glasses that were too small for his face and his clothes that were too big for his body.

They stayed in a hotel near Hallgrimskirkja, arriving around midday. Mikami ended up going straight to his room and falling asleep, which was what he tended to do when he was stressed. Light hated the dullness of it all—waiting around just felt pointless.

He started by trying to read a book but found he couldn’t concentrate, and so instead he wandered down to the reception, ready to take a walk to clear his head. The hotel was small and cramped, a fire roaring on the other end of the room, and the receptionist, a woman in her fifties, seemingly occupied by her crosswords. But before he could leave—he caught sight of some flyers at the desk. He paused, throwing a cautious look up at the receptionist.

“Can I take this?” He asked, in shaky Icelandic. She looked up; an eyebrow raised.

“Yes.” She replied, in English. “Just help yourself.”

Light couldn’t help but feel irritated that she ignored his attempts to speak the language; although he figured her English was probably better than his Icelandic. He took the flyer with a meek ‘thank you’ and started to paw through it.

_A Tour of Ice and Fire._

In the end, the tour wasn’t as interesting as Light had hoped. They’d taken them up near a volcano—but the sky was too foggy to see much of anything. The most interesting part had come towards the end, when, even through the mist, a thing trickle of brilliant tangerine lava crawled down the rocky expanse of mountain, barely visible, but still there. It had been nearly dark, and impossible to see much of anything through the cold, wintery afternoon. For a brief moment, Light had understood why so many people from Iceland believed in faeries and elves.

After that, he’d returned to his hotel room and tried to get some rest before they needed to get on the job. When he woke up, Mikami was rapping at the door.

“Come on,” he said brusquely, once Light had opened the door. “We need to go.” He seemed flustered, and his face was red, as if he’d been scratching at it.

“Alright.”

It was midnight—not that it looked much different from the late afternoon. Light was glad he’d brought his warmest coat, now buttoned up to his throat. His nose was freezing, nearly numb from cold.

The plan was to shoot Sveinbergsson in his garden while he was going out for a cigarette. According to his wife, Sveinbergsson was a heavy smoker, and always went out for one last cigarette before he went to bed at 1am. The idea was to get him with one of the long-range guns Namikawa had given them (due to the difficulty of getting such a weapon over the boarders, they obtained this from a shady man who met them by the airport, who was huge, muscular, and spoke no English).

They walked through various streets for at least half an hour—barely seeing another soul for the entire time. It had snowed during the day, although it hadn’t managed to stick around—leaving sludgy, brown mounds of snow clustered in the corners, and a thin layer of slippery ice on the pavements and roads.

Sveinbergsson lived on the edge of town, in a neat row of suburban houses with small, gravelly gardens. They’d planned far enough ahead to know that from small the patch of woods across the road, one could observe the actions of anybody in those rows of gardens without being seen.

“Go to the front of the house,” Mikami instructed him. “Check if there’s anything out of the ordinary.”

Light wasn’t sure what ‘out of the ordinary’ meant, but he went anyway, keeping low and sticking to the shadows until he reached the front of the house. From here, there were two windows looking into the hallway. The lights were on, and even from the side, Light could hear the hum of voices.

He returned to Mikami. “Everything seems normal.”

“Alright.” Mikami’s hands tightened around the gun safety. Despite the coldness, there were a few beads of sweat on his upper lip. He turned around, leaning towards a toppled tree. “I suppose, now we wait.”

They did exactly that, squatting in a patch of dead twigs and shrubbery; Light had to shift occasionally to stop himself from getting uncomfortable. They waited, tense at first, although their limbs softened as time passed, and still, nothing happened.

Light checked his watch. “It’s past one.” He couldn’t see Mikami’s expression through the dark.

“Are you sure?”  
“It’s what my watch says.”

Mikami frowned. “Maybe he’s just going to sleep later. It wouldn’t be outside the ordinary.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” A long pause. “We’ll wait a little longer.”

By the time it reached half past, Mikami was noticeably more disquieted.

“This isn’t good,” he said, putting the gun down for a moment.

“Should we do something?”

“I don’t know, maybe. I just… don’t want to mess anything up.”

“It’s fine, I won’t be noticed. Don’t worry.”

Light crept down the hill, through a side alley, and to the front of the house. There were no streetlamps, which made him uneasy; one of the lights in the window had gone out. He waited for a second, meandering by the road, waiting for a sign of life. For a while, nothing happened, before Light heard a glass break from inside.

His winced and tiptoed a little closer. Upon closer inspection, he could see the front door was ever so slightly ajar; he pushed against it slightly, opening it further. From inside, he heard a shout, then a series of expletives in Icelandic, German and English.

Light’s heart froze. Something was wrong.

Silently, he pushed open the door fully.

The first thing he saw was a splatter of blood on the carpet, still wet. Through, in the other room, he could hear heavy, wet, breathing.

He waited, then proceeded into the kitchen as quietly as he could. At the entrance of the kitchen, he could see the feet of two legs sticking out of the door. As he got closer, he could see it was a woman, sprawled out on the floor, a great, scarlet patch in the middle of her t-shirt. It seeped outwards, like rays of a star.

Her eyes landed on Light, then widened.

“Shh,” he whispered, crouching by her side. If she made a noise, it would blow his cover. Her upper limp trembled, as she stared at him with a pair of huge, dark eyes. Gently, he pressed his finger into the bruised skin surrounding the wound, and she yelped.

Up close, it looked even worse—even bigger, and even deeper. In all likelihood, there wasn’t much to be done. He needed to find Sveinbergsson.

“I’ll be back,” he whispered. The woman’s eyes glinted, and she shook her head. “I will,” he lied. “I promise.”  
He texted Mikami, the woman’s blood smeared across his palm, telling him to get the house as quickly as possible. Had Sveinbergsson beaten his wife to it? Had he figured out what she was planning? Or was it an act of random paranoia?

Light got slowly to his feet and stepped into the living room. Fortunately, he had a knife in his pocket, small, but sharp as a knife could be. Could for clean, quick jobs.

Beneath him, the floor groaned ever so slightly.

He caught sight of Sveinbergsson by the window, although he hadn’t seemed to notice Light’s presence. His breath was heavy and fast, and he ran a hand through his hair. Blood was spattered across his pyjama top.

There was no sign of Mikami, no text, not anything. Light ducked back behind the door and searched for a suitable place to hide while he waited for Mikami, and, more importantly, Mikami’s gun.

Under the stairs was a cupboard which would be suitable; he needed to keep an eye on Sveinbergsson—if he got away, they’d get nothing. He rearranged a few coats and umbrellas in order to fashion himself a suitable hiding place.

Sveinbergsson stalked from the living room to somewhere else that Light couldn’t make out. Light heard his voice, deep, booming, and panicked. Light wondered if he was speaking desperately with his dying wife. Why had he stabbed her? Had he worked out her plan?

He heard footsteps getting closer, making the floorboards tremble under Sveinbergsson’s weight. Light’s heart started hammering against his chest.

Did Sveinbergsson know he was here? No, he couldn’t.

He pressed himself against the wall, trying not to make a noise.

Sveinbergsson sounded like he was rummaging through some bags, looking for something, still cursing under his breath. He spoke to himself in low, muffled Icelandic which Light could not make out.

Then the steps got closer, until they were just outside the door.

Shit _. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit_.

Where was Mikami?

Light slipped out the knife from his pocket and gripped it tightly, until his knuckles turned white. He hadn’t actually killed anybody for himself in three years. But if he had to, he’d have to—

The door rattled, making Light flinch. What was Sveinbergsson looking for? Why wouldn’t he just _leave_?

He continued to rattle at the door, and Light gripped the knife tighter, pointing it out so he was ready to strike before Sveinbergsson could even see him. If the door opened, he’d have no choice but to kill him without hesitation.

The door swung open, nearly hitting Light’s face. He sprung forward, aiming at Sveinbergsson’s throat, but missed, instead slashing at his collarbone. Sveinbergsson yelped and starting shouting in Icelandic. For a moment, he seemed shocked, before he started to fight back.

He threw Light back, slamming him into the wall of the cupboard, knocking the air from his lungs.

He scrambled to his feet and slashed at Sveinbergsson’s chest. Sveinbergsson froze, and Light used the opportunity to jam the knife into his arm.

“Fuck!” Sveinbergsson said in English. He grabbed Light by throat and threw them out into the hall.

 _Get up. Get up._ His inner monologue took on the voice of Namikawa, with its cool, detached monotone.

Namikawa had taught him to always get up, no matter how much pain you were in you could never just roll over and die, not until the final beat of your heart. He got up, but before he could get far, Sveinbergsson had grabbed him by his neck again and smashed his head against the floor, once, twice, a crack sounding both times. Light struggled against his grip and sunk the knife into his arm again.

Sveinbergsson screeched, and tightened his hands around Light’s neck, then slammed Light’s head back again. His vision began to swim, until Sveinbergsson’s face had trebled.

The oxygen deprivation was making him giddy, until all the fear had dissolved.

Sveinbergsson said something in a mix of German and Icelandic that sounded like a taunt. His face was wife and wrinkled around the eyes, with thin lips contorted into a menacing scowl.

For a moment, Light was sure he would die—there seemed to be no other realistic option.

Then, he felt Sveinbergsson slump forward and on top of him, the pungent taste of blood filling his mouth. Then he couldn’t see anything.

Was this what being dead was like?

He jerked reflexively, and Sveinbergsson’s body fell of him, tumbling to the side. It was only then Light saw the enormous whole in his brain, bloody and pulpy. One of his eyes had been blown into fleshy pieces, while one remained open, staring but unseeing.

Mikami stood above him, the gun trembling in his hands.  
“We should leave.” He said, after a second. Light nodded vigorously.

He vowed to himself, after that day, that he’d never let death get that close again. Later, he’d realise he was mistaken to be so naïve.

_iii._

The third time Light should have died but didn’t, he was in Houston, Texas, trying to kill a veteran.

The guy, Isaac Barton, had once been a reasonably powerful general. However, he had descended into an opiate addiction after returning from Iraq, and had incurred a significant amount of debt from powerful drug lords. Reading through his file, Light supposed there was a reason to pity Barton, although it also said that the man was violent and potentially violent. He’d managed to evade the men he was indebted to for several years, changing his name as he moved from state to state. But he hadn’t managed to stay effectively under the radar, having spent a few nights in jail for drunk driving and assaulting a police officer.

Light knew the man wasn’t afraid to kill, and that he felt he had nothing to lose.

He hadn’t expected him to be so _paranoid_ , however.

He’d attacked the man while was in the bath, expecting him to be more vulnerable in that position. Having stalked him for the past few days, he knew the man was perpetually tense. He’d hoped to catch him by surprise, and normally, that kind of thing worked well. But this time, it had been his first mistake.

After the ensuing struggle, during which Light managed to shoot him in the foot, Barton had managed to gain the upper hand. He was huge, even larger than Light had expected—and although he didn’t look young, his arms were enormous, and he had to be at least six foot and five inches tall. Light’s head was forced into the soapy water for thirty seconds, then pulled back out.

“Who sent you?” Barton demanded, pulling him briefly to the surface. The water was still warm.

“It doesn’t matter,” Light said, water dribbling out the corners of his mouth. “Because I don’t—” He was buried back under the water. This time, he choked, and soapy water filling his eyes and mouth. He struggled, desperately, not exactly sure what his goal was, only that he had the all-encompassing, desperate need for air.

Once again, he was pulled from the water. The cold air hit him like a tonne of bricks.

_Air._

“Don’t fucking lie,” Barton hissed. Light could see that same, animalistic desire within his opponent; the instinct entrenched in every living thing from birth. From the moment we were born, we cried because we wanted to live.

“Who sent you?”  
“I told you—” His neck was forced down, and this time, he tried to resist it. When he realised it wouldn’t work, he took in a huge gulp of air. He’d always assumed the worst way to die would be to burn—to watch the skin melt off your bones. But at least when you burned, your nerves would eventually die. But drowning? Drowning felt endless.

“I tried to give you a chance, but you wouldn’t talk. This is your fault.” Barton murmured. His voice was oddly soothing. Light struggled blindly, a ringing noise sounding in his ear, crescendoing until it made him disorientated. His arms jerked above the surface; his head was light. He could feel his heart in his throat.

He’d never liked the water, and after this day, he’d grow to hate it even more.

Then, he stopped moving altogether. He let his legs and arms go limp, and closed his eyes, trying to make himself as weightless as possible. He imagined that he was floating instead of sinking, screwing his eyes shut.

How long had he been under? A minute, maybe. No longer.

Slowly, Barton’s grip on his neck loosened. He sighed, and slowly, withdrew his hand.

Light fought the urge to break the surface and take a huge gulp of air. Instead, he stayed limp and lifeless, waiting until Barton got to his feet.

That was the mistake. Never leave the scene until you’re sure your enemy is dead—if you’ve shout him ten times, shoot him once more.

Barton released exhaled shakily and stood there for a second. Then, Light could hear the soles of his shoes skid against the floor as he turned around.

Light leapt up and grabbed his gun off the floor and shot without thinking. The man’s body fell to the floor with a thud, blood mingling with the spilled bath water.

Light leapt up, wet hair dripping down onto his shirt, the droplets of water trickling down his neck and onto his back. He stared down at Barton, who was cradling his bloody thigh. The man’s eyes were surprisingly child-like and a little glassy, staring up at his attacker in abject horror.  
“Please,” he said shakily. “I don’t want to die.” Light cocked his head, the trigger slick beneath his fingers. “Please. Please. I have two kids. I don’t want to die.”

Light squeezed the trigger and shot him three more times, aiming each time for the head. Killing was an art, not a science.

_iv._

The fourth time Light should have died but didn’t, he’d thought the danger was long gone. He’d just returned from Slovenia, having killed politician Rozalija Krajnik. He’d done a little research before he’d gone; Krajnik was a veteran in her party, known for her integrity and honesty, and had become intent on stamping out corruption in recent years, particularly when it came the influence of lobbyist groups. Unfortunately for her, she’d crossed the wrong lobbyist groups, who weren’t ready to let go of their influence.

He’d come back from the trip feeling uneasy, for a number of reasons. Firstly, he felt sympathetic to the woman; she’d wanted to do the right thing. Second of all, he’d had to kill her husband; of course, he hadn’t _wanted_ to—but he’d come home early—leaving him with no choice. Thirdly—he always felt uneasy about killing women. It was probably just the sense of chivalry his father had installed in him growing up; he tended to see women as something to protect (although this view had been challenged by Wedy, and now, increasingly, Kiyomi, whose animosity to him was growing with every day). He especially didn’t want to kill petite, elderly women like Krajnik, who’d barely fought back. Almost as soon as he’d attacked, she’d gone limp—ready to die. Her husband was the same, and just as feeble. He’d tried to kill them as quickly and painlessly as possible.

When he returned to Hokkaido, Namikawa was waiting for him, as he always was. What he hadn’t expected was two men waiting with him.

One Light recognised as Masahiko Kida, a man he’d only encountered a few times. He didn’t know much about Kida’s role, only that he was, along with Namikawa, the shadowy circle of men who gave him orders. The third was a Westerner, who he didn’t recognise at all.

“Light,” Namikawa said coolly, putting down his cup and saucer. “How was your trip?”  
“Fine.” He replied, cautious, leaving his suitcase on the side. His eyes scanned the faces of three men all staring at him. Kida, he noticed, was glaring at him. “Is something wrong?”  
Nobody spoke. Kida and the Westerner were drinking whisky, while Namikawa drank tea.

“Let’s step outside.” Kida said, then downed the remainder of his whisky in one gulp.

They walked onto the balcony, looking over the snow-capped forests surrounding the area. From here, you could even see the fields of brightly coloured flowers, and behind that, the towering mountains of Hokkaido.  
“This is Mr. Robnik, Light.” Namikawa said lightly, switching to English. “He was the one to make the commission.”  
Robnik nodded at him, although he looked irritated.

“Is something wrong?” He asked again. He could sense the tension in his gut, and historically, his gut tended to be correct.

“We told you not to kill anyone but the old lady.” Kida said gruffly, once they were all outside.

“Ah…” Light scratched his face. “That.” He looked away, suddenly nervous. He was used to following instructions to the T, and had for his entire life. Not doing so felt like unmitigated failure.

“Pretty major.” Kida snapped. “A man is dead.”

“And so is his wife.” Light said, defensive. “I did what you wanted, didn’t I? Besides, I didn’t have a choice. He came home early.”

“You should have planned better.”

“I can’t account for chance. Nobody can.”

Kida tutted, looking over at Namikawa. “A better worker would have avoided this.”

A flare of irritation, hot and sharp, in Light’s chest. Like being burned. “Kida-san,” he said quickly, in Japanese. “This won’t happen again. Besides, I’m sure if you were in my position, you would have—”

“What did you say to me?” Kida hissed.  
“All I’m saying is, if you’d been in my situation, you might think differently—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Kida had grabbed his hair and hauled him towards him. He pushed his head down, until it dangled off the ledge of the balcony. Light inhaled sharply, feeling the wind rustle against his hair.

“Say that again,” Kida said, his voice barely audible.

“I just mean, it was a difficult position to be in—”

Kida pushed his head down further, taking the bottom half of his torso with it.

“You said he was smart, Namikawa.” He murmured. “I’m not so sure.”  
“He is. But he can be arrogant.”

“You said he was the best you had.”

Silence. The wind continued to howl, making a thin, whistling sound. Light grew increasingly dizzy as more and more of his blood flowed to his head.

“He’s good. But he has more to learn.” Namikawa said. He sounded disinterested.

“Is he good enough that you’d be pissed off if I threw him off?”

“You can do what you like, Kida. I could train up somebody else, no dirt off my shoulder.”

Kida snorted.

“But it would be terribly time-consuming,” Namikawa continued. Light felt dizzy enough that he could pass out. “There’d be a lot of paperwork to do.” His voice was barely a mumble—he sounded as if his mind was elsewhere.

“I suppose so.” Kida said. He laughed. “Say you’re sorry.”

Light grit his teeth.

“You think I won’t do it, but I will. Do you think you’re not disposable? There have been plenty of kids who’ve thought themselves above their station. Notice they’re not around anymore.”

Light thought he’d pass out. He opened his eyes, staring down at the cold, gravel thirty metres down. It seemed to spin, then contract.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I’m _sorry_.”

There was a second where he still dangled off the ledge. Then, Kida hauled him to his feet. Light nearly fell to the floor from light-headedness. He stumbled slightly, his head pounding, and sat down, crumpling in on himself. The other three men chortled, then returned inside. Light stayed still, feeling slightly nauseous.

A couple of years later, he’d hear of Kida’s death. A supposed suicide. He’d tried to undermine the leadership, thinking be could do so surreptitiously, and had paid the price for it.

Light hadn’t been responsible for it. But he wished he had.

_v._

The fourth time Light should have died but didn’t, he was in the bedroom of a man who wanted him dead. He’d felt the lack of oxygen to his brain, and with it, a sort of giddy euphoria. Outside, the torrential rain had roared, utterly relentless. Lawliet had smelled like an ashtray. A sweaty ashtray.

During the aftermath, he wasn’t entirely sure what the thought process underpinning his actions had been. Of course, at the time, it had seemed like the right thing to do; he had a vague inkling that he felt it would be a more direct course of action.

It played frequently on his mind—the question of whether Lawliet had meant to kill him. He wondered whether he had it in him—at first, he’d thought not, but now he wasn’t so sure.

At the time there’d been something sort of thrilling about it. Another life ticked off. Four to go.

It had been Namikawa who’d come up with the nickname, when he was sixteen. He’d laughed, noting Light’s ability to evade death. Like a cat. Nine times to die.

What even would have happened he Lawliet had killed him?

He imagined Lawliet hadn’t even thought that far ahead. Why would he? What benefit would it be to him? In all likelihood, none at all. To him, Light was a source of vital information. Killing would be of no benefit, none at all. It hadn’t been a rational decision, just an expression of hatred, of frustration. He’d done it because a part of him wanted to watch Light die.

And now, he examined the battle scars in the mirror. A constellation of bruises, in varying stages of healing, ringed around his neck. Some yellow, some purple, some brown.

It wouldn’t be a problem, he owned plenty of turtlenecks.

Part of him was reminded of the adolescent thrill of hiding love bites from your parents—the voyeurism, the danger of it all. Not that he’d know, anyway.

He quite liked the idea that Lawliet wanted to kill him. It made him feel important.

He fingered the bruising one final time, gritting his teeth at the dull pain. He quite liked the look of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to do another backstory chapter like this for L, so let me know what you thought. next instalment: things get spicy again


	11. the bride of the monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uninvited, the thought of you stayed too late in my head,  
> So I went to bed, dreaming of you hard, hard, woke with you name,  
> Like tears, soft, salt on my lips, the sound of its bright syllables  
> like a charm, like a spell.
> 
> (Carol Ann Duffy, You)

Naomi and Gevanni left early in the morning, before L had woken up.

His sleep had been restless and disquieted, filled with shapeless figures who’s faces morphed and shifted with each breath. Several times he woke up groggily, and paced up and down his room, just to try and clear his head. It never worked. Even the pills hadn’t helped.

And then there was Light. Light hadn’t left his head for a second—not since he’d left. Sometimes L would see something in the corner of his eye and mistake it for him—nearly jumping out of his skin.

Now, at eleven in the morning, L had that stiff, uncomfortable feeling one only got following a night of poor sleep, even accompanied by a slight tinge of nausea. He was already on his fourth cup of coffee, but each only made him feel worse, if a little more wired. But nonetheless, he devoured another, along with a whole box of donuts Rester had brought him.

He yearned, childishly, for Watari’s presence. Although he’d been independent and solitary as long as he could remember—he hadn’t realised what a comfort Watari’s presence had been until he was gone; even more so, now that he was dead.

_Dead._

That fact seemed cloaked in unreality, so much so that L wondered if this was all a horribly vivid dream, the type he’d get when he was a child that never seemed to end. Then again, his life had acquired a dreamlike quality recently; it was easy, simply to drift through life, not quite absorbing any of the things that happened to him, as if lounged at the back of the cinema, half-awake, still watching the shitty B-roll movie play out before him, long after everybody else had left.

L sipped his coffee. It tasted like shit. Rester had brought it up from the place on the corner.

He heard Near return with Rester, conversing in low, even tones.

Without realising, he’d returned to old local news reels about the disappearance of Tsuki Yagami.

“Mr. Coil,” Near said. L looked up. “I’m sure you’ve heard about Ms. Misora and Mr. Gevanni’s departure.”

“Yes, I have.”

“I have given some thought to how we will approach this investigation—I think it best if we use a four-tonged approach—that is, Misora and Gevanni will focus on Kida and Amane. Rester and Lidner will look into Takada, I will be looking into Yagami.” He phrased nothing like a question—it seemed like all the decisions had already been made in this regard, without L’s consultation. 

L unwrapped a lollipop, sucking on it petulently without looking in Near’s direction. He pulled his legs tighter into his chest. “And what will I be focusing on?”

“We think it best you focus on Higuchi, since you had contact with him just before he died.”

L tossed the sweet wrapper across the desk. He continued to stare at his computer monitor, blankly, without really seeing anything at all.

“He was here last night.” He said eventually, in a low voice.

“What do you mean?”

“He was here.” L repeated nonchalantly, his voice muffled by the lollipop. “Yagami.”

Nobody spoke. L continued to scroll through the article about Tsuki Yagami, looking through information he already knew off by heart.

“What are you talking about?” Lidner asked, finally breaking the silence.

“He was in my room.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Lidner said, laughing humourlessly. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

“No. We had a conversation.”  
“Did you try and apprehend him?”

L hesitated, his gaze settling momentarily on his reflection on the now blank computer screen. He could see Lidner’s face a few metres behind him. Her lower lips were pursed, as if she was trying not to scream at him.

“An attempt was made.” He said flatly.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I am only one person, Ms. Lidner. Forgive me if I wasn’t able to apprehend one of the world’s most dangerous assassins on my own.”

“Why aren’t you hurt?” Rester cut in.

“He didn’t try and hurt me.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I mean what I said. He did not try and hurt me.” L sucked furiously on his lollipop, the sickly sour-sweetness beginning to burn the roof of his mouth. He expected another retort from Lidner, or Rester, but nothing came.

“How intriguing.” Near muttered. “Peculiar behaviour. Why would Yagami walk into such a vulnerable situation?” He hummed in concentration. “But of course, the question arises of why you didn’t tell us earlier.”

L stood up from the desk, “to tell you the truth, Near, I’m not sure this professional relationship is working very well.”

“Is that so?”

“I don’t know who you think you are,” L said thinly, staring down at the young man, “but you are not respecting my capacity in this field.”

Someone’s breath hitched, presumably Rester’s.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Coil.” Near said, not sounding very apologetic, “But this is a cooperative investigation. You are not the only accomplished detective here.”

“With all due respect, Near, but to compare me to you or your colleagues isn’t really a fair analysis of our aptitude.” His eyes skimmed over the faces of Lidner and Rester. “No offence.”

“We value your contribution as much as any, but—”

“You may think you have the right to tell me what to do, Nate River, but the fact of the matter is I have years of experience in this field; to compare our abilities…” He trailed off, letting the sentence finish itself. What was the harm in saying it, anyway? Everybody knew it. “The point is, I think it would be more effective for me to investigate this on my own.” He paused. “That is, without your assistance.”

Near didn’t look at him, only continuing to fiddle with the wheels on the toy truck. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” He said quietly. L was a little disappointed—he’d expected at least some fanfare, perhaps a grovelling apology from his former mentee. “But, there is nothing I can do to stop you. Naturally, we will continue our own, parallel investigation.”

“That’s fair enough, and I will give you information I feel is essential… after all, we all want the same thing. But from now on, I will operate on my own. I will be leaving the premises shortly. Unfortunately, your investigation is too slow for my tastes; I believe it would be better for me to pursue the leads more directly.”

“That’s understandable.” Near said.

It was better this way, L assured himself—he worked better on his own. And when he did work with other people, he expected them to respect his position as the world’s greatest detective; to treat him like he’d treat any other police officer wasn’t just patronising—it was damn right insulting.

“I respect your capabilities as a detective, Near.” L said coolly. “But I think this is for the best.”

Near took a strand of snowy hair and wrapped it around his finger, leaning forwards until his bangs partially obscured his eyes. They were certainly a peculiar colour, when you managed to get a glimpse of them—a grey that was so pale they resembled a mirror.

“As you wish.” He replied, in his usual monotone. L could see his former mentee liked to mimic him in some regards, and he didn’t like it. Near hadn’t earned the right to compare himself to him. Not by a long shot. Although Near might have been the most intelligent child at Wammy’s, he was still not experienced enough to warrant his ego; indeed, he was still a child.

Yes, L thought. This was certainly for the best. 

* * *

Naomi watched a wispy, grey cloud drift in front of the Tokyo sun. It was a cool day, but mostly clear; although the skyline was still partially blurred by a slight haze. It was quiet, strangely so—a calm sort of day, the kind that would have never been possible in L.A.

She threw a brief glance at Gevanni; who’s eyes were locked on the road ahead. She’d spent quite a bit of time studying her partner’s appearance, recently; he had a naturally serious, but slightly rakish appearance—one that reminded her a little of her own fiancé. Still, he could be difficult to talk to—when she tried to make conversation with him, his replies were blunt or stand-offish.

“Amane’s career doesn’t seem to have taken a pause,” she noted, scrolling through her phone. She was glancing through Misa Amane’s social media, which was constantly being updated, by either her or her team. Nothing seemed to indicate that anything was wrong—even the replies from her fans seemed confused, a few commenters questioning why there had been no word on her fiancé’s death. Nonetheless, Amane’s posts were typically bright and carefree.

“Something about it isn’t right.” Gevanni mumbled in reply, draping his arm over the steering wheel. It was a nice car, apparently provided by the FBI, with sleek black leather seating and tinted windows. Naomi had never received anything this nice from her work.

Amane lived at the top of a high-rise tower in an expensive part of town, surrounded by high walls and neatly manicured lawns. In order to even get through to the car park a code needed to be punched in, and by the lobby were two security guards, milling around, their eyes obscured by sunglasses. They regarded Naomi and Gevanni as the car approached.

“Hello,” Naomi said. The security guard didn’t answer, staring down his nose at her. Naomi examined her reflection in his glasses—she looked tired, she thought. And irritated.

She rummaged through her pockets, withdrawing her police badge. “I’m with the FBI,” she said briskly, flashing the badge. “We’re here to speak to with Miss Amane. She knows we’re coming.”

The security guards exchanged looks. “The FBI?” They asked. “You don’t look American. Or sound American.”

“I’m not. I’ve worked for both the FBI and Japanese Police. Can you let us past now, please?”

“Do you have any proof of Amane-san’s knowledge of this meeting?”

“I just showed you my proof. Did you not see the badge?”

The security guard sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. For a moment, Naomi was scared they’d turn her away. “Fine.” He said eventually, and Naomi had to stop herself breathing a sigh of relief. “I’ll buzz you in.”

Gevanni’s eyes met hers for an uncomfortable moment, in which both of their gazes seemed to linger a second too long; if she didn’t know better, she’d have thought it was a look of reluctant respect. They parked the car hastily, scurrying to get in the building in time, as if afraid the security guards changed would change their mind.

Inside was as clean and sterile as one would expect from a luxury apartment—everything was immaculate, so immaculate that Naomi felt ashamed of her unwashed boots. There were clean, marble floors, with pillars around the sides, and modern, suitably incomprehensible paintings lining the walls. A woman met their eyes briefly from the other side of the room, dressed in her pyjamas, a cigarette tucked behind her ear. Naomi was sure she’d seen her on the television before.

Amane was on the top floor—the penthouse—the most expensive of the lot. She met them at the elevator.

Naomi noted that she was shorter than she’d expected; she couldn’t be any taller than five feet. Her bleached hair was pulled into girlish pigtails, and without any makeup, she looked far younger than her twenty-two years of age. She wore cotton shorts with a black metal t-shirt, and over the top, an absurd, sheer pink dressing gown edged with feathers that trailed around her feet, giving the impression of a gaudy, pink peacock.

“Misora-san,” she said. She pulled Naomi, surprisingly, into a tight hug. She had to arrange her limbs in an uncomfortable way to accommodate it, patting the other woman cautiously on her back then pulling hastily away. Naomi noticed Amane staring at Gevanni, wide-eyed, for a few seconds, although she quickly tore her eyes away when she noticed Naomi was looking at her. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She said, forcing a smile.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Amane.”

“It would have been Mrs. Kida by now.” Amane replied bitterly. “Just to think—I’d be on my honeymoon by now! We were going to go to the Bahamas, you know. Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee?” She giggled, leading them into her apartment. “A cocktail?”

Naomi and Gevanni exchanged looks. “A green tea, please. If you have it.”

“Oh, of course.” Amane sounded a little disappointed.

“Nothing for me, thank you.” Gevanni added.

“Yua!” Amane called out, “Could I get a green tea, please? And a peach iced tea, too. Come sit down, Naomi. Can I call you Naomi?”

“Er—sure.”

They sat around plush, creamy white sofas dotted with pastel yellow cushions. Her apartment seemed to be having an identity crisis—there were various potted plants and expensive looking pieces of furniture that looked straight out of glossy interior design magazine, but the room was dotted strange stuffed animals that resembled voodoo dolls, and on the walls were posters for obscure, gothic western bands, as well as a few photo’s from photoshoots of Amane. Everything about the photos seemed to suggest a teenage girl (one even featured the model in a get-up resembling a school uniform) despite the implicit sexuality, a fact that made Naomi feel uneasy.

Amane sat on the sofa with her legs crossed. “I’m glad you’re looking into this,” she said. Her voice was high and affected. “I knew from the beginning that something wasn’t right about Masahiko’s death— _right away_. He would never have taken his own life—never ever.” Yua returned with the drinks, passing the glass of peach iced tea to Amane, and putting the steaming cup of green tea in front of Naomi.

“Did you notice anything different about him? Before his death, that is.” Gevanni asked.

Amane stared at the ceiling. “Maybe he seemed nervous.” She shrugged. “I’m not sure, though.”

“Give it some thought. Was there anything different at all?”

“Hmm… well, I suppose he seemed a little nervous. On edge, I mean. Everything seemed to take him by surprise.”

“So, he seemed scared?”  
“Well, I don’t know if I’d say _scared_. But he wasn’t quite himself.” Amane took a swig of her iced tea. The way she winced made Naomi wonder if Yua had added anything else for flavour.

“Amane-san,” Gevanni cut in. “Were you aware that your fiancé was involved in organised crime?”

Naomi was taken aback—she hadn’t expected her partner’s interview style to be quite so direct.

“What?” Amane exclaimed, her lips pursed. “What are you talking about?”

Gevanni picked up his briefcase, laying it carefully on the glass coffee table. He opened it, withdrawing various typed up documents. He smoothed out one, containing black photographs, then passed it to Amane.

“Do you recognise the men in these photos?” He asked.

“Yes, I recognise one of them.” Amane replied. “The one on the left is Masahiko.”

The first two photographs showed two men sitting at a café table, seemingly deep in conversation. The next showed one sliding an envelope from one end of the table to the other. Gevanni had managed to obtain the footage, after several painstaking days of combing through CCTV footage.

“Do you know who the other man is?” Naomi asked.

“No.”

“Not even the slightest inkling.”

Amane huffed and crossed her arms. “No, Misora-san. I have no idea who that man is. I really don’t.”

“Did you ever ask you fiancé about his work?”

“Not really. I mean, I knew Masahiko was a businessman, but I’ve never really been good at that kind of thing… I don’t really know much about that sort of thing, you know, so I never asked. I had my career, and I focused on that; he had his career and he focused on that.”

Naomi had a terrible feeling that this interview wasn’t really going to go anywhere.

“Surely you must have been just a little curious?.”

“Not really.” She fidgeted. “As I told you, it’s really not my kind of thing.”

“We have information that would suggest your fiancé may have been involved in the carrying out of murder contracts. Were you aware of this?”

Amane’s frown deepened. “What are you talking about?”

“Your fiancé was involved in the carrying out of murder contracts. I repeat my previous question—were you aware of this?”

“Murder contracts? You mean like—assassins?”

“Yes.”

Amane stared at them like they were both mad. “Are you messing with me?” She whined. “If you are, it’s not funny.”

“Not, Amane-san.” Gevanni said impatiently. “Your husband’s involvement in organised crime has been extensively researched by our team; these are not baseless accusations.”

Misa’s brows furrowed, and for a moment, she looked as if she was about to burst into tears.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about. Nothing ever seemed strange to me, I mean…” her words teetered off. “I feel terrible now. I should have paid more attention…”

“You don’t need to feel bad,” Naomi cut in. She worried Gevanni’s approach was too cold. “I mean, nobody would jump to that conclusion straight away.”

Amane looked marginally less upset, but her lower lip was still quivering.

“Did you notice anything about his work? Anything unusual?” She asked softly.

“The only thing I ever thought was odd was how much time he spent with Namikawa. They never wanted me to be there when they talked about work.”

“Namikawa?”

“Just one of his colleagues. They always went out drinking and said I couldn’t come—they said it was men’s stuff and I wouldn’t understand.”

“What did he look like?”

“Long, dark hair. I’d say he was in his thirties. About average height… quite thin. He didn’t live near us—he’d just come for visits. And when he did, him and Masahiko would go out drinking nearly all night.”

“Did you know what his first name was.”

“Reiji, I think.”

“Did you not think that was suspicious? Them going out all night on their own?” Gevanni asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Not really… I mean, that’s what men do, right? They want some time away from women sometimes, you know, just them. It’s completely normal.” Gevanni looked sceptical.

“She’s right.” Naomi said. Unfortunately—her own fiancé had the same habit. He’d go off on late nights, returning in the wee hours, never speaking the next day of what he’d gotten up to. In the beginning, it had caused Naomi several restless nights, but the novelty had since worn off, and she no longer cared. He could spend his nights wherever, and with whoever he wanted—for all she cared. “You weren’t to have known better—it’s completely understandable. Was there anything else you noticed that could have been out of the ordinary?”

Misa stared at the floor for a few seconds. “No,” she said, despondent. “I can’t think of anything right now.”

“That’s okay.” Naomi reached into her pocket, withdrawing a small moleskine notebook. She ripped a page out and scribbled down her number. “If you remember anything else, just give me a call.”

Amane took the scrap of paper with a bit of trepidation. “Alright. I’ll give it some thought—I’ll call you as soon as I think of something. I mean, I bet if I think about it, I’ll remember more…”

“Even if it doesn’t turn out to be anything important,” Gevanni added, “it’s still vital you let us know.”

“Of course.” Amane replied, with a solemn nod. “Is there anything else I can help you with, officers?”

“No,” Naomi said, her voice clipped. “That’ll be everything for today.” She got to her feet, dusting off her lap. “Thank you for your time, Amane-san.”

“It’s no problem…” Amane laughed nervously, but her voice was slightly wet. She had big, round eyes; Naomi could see the ring of brown where her blue contacts ended and the natural hue of her irises began. The contacts gave her a strange, doll-like quality—like a manga drawing. “I… I have a lot to take in.”  
“I’m sure you do. I’m sure this has been… difficult for you.”

“I would have never expected Masahiko to do anything like this… I mean… he wouldn’t even hurt a fly. Between you and I… Namikawa always seemed like a… strange man. I always thought there was something weird about him…”

“There’s no point in speculating at this point.” Gevanni said quickly. “At the moment, we’re just trying to gather as much as information as we can.”

“Of course. It was nice to meet you, Misora-san. And…”

“…Stephen Gevanni.”

“Nice to meet you too, Gevanni-san.”

They walked to the elevator in silence and said their goodbyes. As the elevator descended, Gevanni turned to Naomi. “I don’t know how much we’re going to get out of her,” he said, “she seems dumb as a brick.”

“Do you think?”

“Yeah—I mean, do you want to pursue it further?”

“I don’t know. I think she could be hiding something.”

Gevanni flashed her a crooked grin—it might have been the first time she’d seen him smile. “You’re a detective,” he said. “Are you sure your detective brain isn’t looking for patterns where there aren’t any?”

Naomi frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Listen, Amane clearly has no idea what’s going on. I think that there’s all there is to it. Sometimes there’s not much in a lead, and it’s best to just drop those leads and focus on something else.”

“Maybe you’re right. I just… something about her was… off. Do you know what I mean?”

“Perhaps she’s just an odd person. There are plenty of them in this world.”

“You can say that again.” Naomi replied dryly. “You’re probably right. Still, I’ll follow this interview up in a month or so… see if her memory’s been nudged.”

“That’s fair enough. But I get the feeling we should pursue other, more promising leads. Amane clearly isn’t very observant—in fact, I’d bed that was what Kida liked so much, you know… aside from the obvious.”

“Yeah. That’s true.” Naomi didn’t say anything for a moment, deep in thought. She wasn’t entirely convinced that Amane was completely stupid—something about the way she acted seemed oddly contrived. But as it was, a gut feeling wasn’t enough to solidify a lead. “I think she liked you, though.”  
“What?”

“She kept staring at you.”

The lift door opened with a chime, and they walked out into the car park, where the air had become significantly chillier, the sun having slipped back behind the clouds.

“Well,” Gevanni said. “At least an attempt was made.”

* * *

L was back on the streets of Los Angeles, alone, with nothing but his laptop in his backpack. He had to find Light.

He could be anywhere—twelve hours had passed—he could have easily left the country by now. But L didn’t need a team to locate somebody, he didn’t need the world’s greatest technology; at the end of it all—he was a detective—and it was a detective’s job to find people, regardless of the individual circumstances. In his early days working primarily as a private eye, tracking people down had become second nature.

The first step was to imagine what he’d do if he was running away—the first thing, of course, would be to find a way out of the city. There were several ways to do this; there was the bus, the train, or taxi. Any of the three was possible, but L would have to pick one first, and judging from Light’s tendency towards snobbishness (L had noticed this in the way he spoke, which could take on an arrogant quality, and in terms of what he wore, he certainly had expensive taste) he’d try the taxi option first. This wouldn’t be too difficult—he’d just have to begin by going to each of the local taxi services, then work his way out.

The first two—the nearest one, and the one around the block, had proved fruitless. He’d shown both the men at the counters the sketch of Light, and even coaxed them (with the help of a generous bribe) into allowing him to skim through their CCTV footage—but there was nobody who even vaguely resembled Light. L had thanked them both tersely for their assistance and went to the next place.

 _Third time lucky_ , he told himself. He lit a cigarette, smoking it quickly before flicking into the gutter. He’d recently taken to smoking Marlboro Reds; they smelt like the glimpses of memories he had of his mother—in all her stylish indifference. He remembered her leaning against Although he’d been told he looked like her (they shared similarly pale complexions, dark hair, dark eyes, and a distaste for overt displays of emotion) he was never able to quite pull off the tragic movie star look in the way she had—or, at least, they he remembered her being able to, in his scant and brief memories of her.

The third place was small and unassuming—L hoped that this discreteness might appeal to Light. The shop itself was tiny and empty, with a few posters for local attractions pasted into the windows. A man was slouched at the counter, examining his nicotine-stained fingernails. He was thin and bald, with a scruffy salt and pepper beard shadowing his jaw.

“Can I help you?” He asked, as L approached. He regarded L with thinly veiled contempt—eyeing over L’s dusty clothes.

“Yes,” L said, digging through his pockets. “Although, I admit, it’s not a typical request.” He withdrew the sketch of Light drawn by Linda.

The man’s eyes gave the picture a peripheral scan. “Can’t say I have.” He replied dispassionately. “Sorry.”

L dug through his pockets, withdrawing a twenty dollar note. He slid it across, still not entirely sure of the etiquette of bribery. His last two attempts had done little to alleviate his minor anxieties. “Are you sure?”

The man gave him a sceptical look, and picked up the note, holding it up to the light and squinting at it with one eye. He looked at L for a long moment, then disappeared into a room at the back of the store. He heard the rumble of voices, and the man returned with an older man just behind him.

“I’ve seen him,” the older man said. He had a remarkably similar face to the other man. “He came in last night. He was the last customer who came in.”

L breathed a sigh of relief, but didn’t allow himself to get his hopes up too much. There was at least a forty percent chance this man was just telling him what he wanted to hear—but still, this was certainly promising.

“Do you mind if I take a look at the CCTV footage? Just to make sure?”

The two men looked at each other. The older one shrugged. “Sure. It’s in the back.”

They lead L back into a cramped, messy room—an ancient looking computer sitting at the back. The ceiling was low, nearly hitting L’s head. By the side of the computer was an ashtray filled to the brim, which L took as invitation to light up once again.

“Are you with the police or something?” The younger man asked gruffly. He eyed L suspiciously.

L took a long inhale. “Something like that.”

The younger man stared at him for a second, as if debating whether to press further. He seemed to decide against it, perhaps inferring that bribes implied discretion. He switched on the computer, opening the programme that ran their primitive CCTV system.

“You find it, Pops.” He said to the older man. The older man got shakily to his feet, leaning over L and fast-forwarding through hours of nearly nothing—aside from the occasional customer—although there had only been three for the entire morning.

“We don’t get too many customers,” the older man admitted sheepishly. “So, I tend to remember everyone who comes in.”

L couldn’t help but smile. Light had made a rookie error; he’d falsely assumed that by choosing somewhere small and discrete that he’d be less likely to be noticed, or indeed, less likely to be found—but had he picked somewhere with a greater flow of customers, he might have been more difficult to trace. The man continued to fast-forward, until he stopped.

“There,” he said, jabbing the screen with his thumb. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

L leaned in—but he knew the answer already. Despite the poor quality, it was unmistakable. The young man standing in the shop front was Light; soaked, and unless the poor quality was deceiving him, shaking slightly, but still, unmistakably Light. The auburn hair, the posture—it was impossible to miss. Still, despite seeming shaken, he maintained his air of regality.

“Yes,” L said smoothly, tapping a pillar of ash off the end of his cigarette. “That’s him.”

He got abruptly to his feet. “What was the number plate of the car you rented to him?”

“I’d have to check the books.” The younger man said. He gave L an expectant look. L sighed, tossing him another twenty dollar note. “You know,” he continued. “Most police don’t need money to get their information.”

“I’m more like a private detective, if you must know. And I’ll need that number plate as quickly as possible.”

The man stood up obediently, returning to the front of the shop and coming back with a huge leather-bound notebook, licking his finger as he turned the pages.

“Here,” he said. “This is it. You want me to write it down?”

“That would be ideal.” L returned, his cigarette making a slight hissing sound as he put it out in a near empty coffee mug.

“So… what did this guy do? Why do you need to find him?”

“Oh,” L said, “he’s the world’s most dangerous assassin, if you must know. He’s wanted in twenty different countries for a series of murders—I’m hunting him down.”

The two men’s eyes widened, and there was a second where nobody spoke. Then, the older man started to chortle.

“Is that a joke?” He asked in disbelief. 

“Yes.” L deadpanned. “To tell you the truth, he’s just the brat with rich parents who decided to run away over a petty argument. Unfortunately, private detective work isn’t quite as exciting as the media makes it out to be.”

* * *

L stood in the street, ignoring the stares of passer’s by. He stared at the sheet of paper with the licence plate number, then stuffed it back into his pocket, pulling out his phone instead. He scrolled through his contacts and rang a number he’d never expected to come in this handy.

It rang twice, before somebody picked up.

“Hello?” The man’s voice asked cautiously. “Who is this?

“Mr. Bennett, this is L.”

“L? What do you want?”

“Well, I hate to impose on you like this, but I’m calling in for a favour.”

“L, I appreciate the work you’ve done for me and my department, but you know I can’t just—”

“Oh no, Mr. Bennett, I’m not asking.”

“Is that a threat?”

“If you’re not willing to cooperate, I’m sure the police corruption unit would be happy to hear about—”

“Fine.” Bennett snapped. “Name your price.”

“It’s nothing big. I just want you to help me find a particular vehicle. Have you got some paper near you? Because you’re going to want to write this down…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys enjoyed this! if u did, leave a comment or a kudos, if you want to. stay tuned for next chapter, shit's about to get real x


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